


The Protector

by HouseofTheBear



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-03-06 19:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 131,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18857164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseofTheBear/pseuds/HouseofTheBear
Summary: Jorah Mormont, former soldier turned bodyguard, never had an issue with professionalism before. That is until he meets Daenerys Targaryen. The daughter of an international arms dealer, she finds her life in the cross-hairs of her father's enemies. Can Jorah keep his heart out of the job or will he discover that love truly is the strongest armour?





	1. Author's Notes

Before we jump into the story, there are some story notes that I need to get out there. If I put it at the beginning of the *real* first chapter, it would have looked weird. So I decided to do it this way.

\- This story is actually finished, but I've decided not to release the chapters all at once. Gotta build the suspense...it's a slow burn after all. There will be a chapter every Friday (maybe two...or three hehe).

\- The rating on this story is going to change and not for the reasons you might expect, given what I usually write ;)  Well, at least not for *several* chapters anyway. There is going to be some very graphic violence (but nothing GoT hasn't already given us) and swearing. I'll change the rating when we get to that chapter and I will also put a warning in the chapter notes as an extra heads-up.

\- You probably noticed the Daario/Daenerys relationship tag, but fear not. Just like the show, he won't be around long ;) This is a Jorah/Daenerys story after all :D

\- You probably also noticed the Barristan & Jorah friendship tag and I know some of you might not look so kindly on that particular character. *My* version of Barristan is helpful to Jorah, and I actually think that in the show, they could have been friends too. Well, if Barristan hadn't done what he did to Jorah...

\- Music played a big part in the writing of this story and I've listed some songs below that I felt fit Our Bear and His Maiden Fair. Sometimes it was just a lyric or two, other times it was the entire track that spoke to the emotions and/or events in a particular chapter. I'll make notes accordingly regarding this.

 

Track List (in no particular order)

  1. Hope That I Don't Fall in Love With You - Tom Waits
  2. In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel
  3. I Want to Know What Love Is - Foreigner
  4. Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons
  5. I'll Be Your Lover Too - Van Morrison
  6. (Everything I Do) I Do It for You - Bryan Adams
  7. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face - Roberta Flack
  8. Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Goulding
  9. The Night We Met - Lord Huron
  10. I Found - Amber Run




	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah met for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: none

_12:55pm, right on schedule_ , Jorah thought, steering his black Audi TT Coupe into a parking space in the nearly deserted car park before making his way through the tree-lined courtyard that adjoined the office building. The glass double doors slid open with a faint hiss, the lobby empty and silent. No security guard sat behind the large curved glass and metal desk, something Jorah found odd. He stopped and made a slow turn, pretending to take in the modernistic details of the architecture, but searching for something in particular. He found the two cameras easily, stationed in the left and right corners of the atrium. They weren’t even trying to be inconspicuous with their placement nor did they make any attempt to hide the obvious red blinking light. Yet he didn’t feel that there was an imminent threat to his life, so he continued on to the lift, pressing the up arrow to call the car. Once it arrived, its polished metal doors opened to reveal sleek wood and mirrored paneling, the dark carpet appeared nearly brand new. He pressed ‘12’ and the doors slid shut. He adjusted his tie in his reflection in the mirror, smoothing it down his chest before buttoning his suit jacket. He only owned two, this one the better looking. Jorah sometimes missed the rough texture of his Army uniform, the familiar weight of his rucksack on his back. A suit was a uniform of sorts, but it was too soft, too thin. He felt vulnerable in it, missing the snug support and protection of his tactical vest against his torso. But what he didn’t miss was broiling beneath the desert sun in those heavy garments, sweat rolling down his back, gathering at the base of his spine and soaking into the waistband of his trousers. It was an easily recognizable sensation, and he felt it now, although certainly not to the degree it had been all those years ago.

It was unseasonably warm outside, even for an early May day in London, and he could feel the beginnings of sweat prickling in the middle of his back.  Rolling his shoulders to deal with the feeling, he straightened the cuffs of his jacket, listening to the horrid instrumental butchering of “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love with You” by Tom Waits issuing from the speaker above his head.  Despite the poor quality of the music, he found himself humming along to the tune as the lift opened onto the selected floor. 

               His scuffed black dressy boots squeaked slightly on the black marble floor ( _I’ll need to fix that_ ), the sound echoing off the sterile white walls as he walked down the long hallway to Suite 1224, the brass plaque by the door reading “A & R Trading Company”. _‘Trading’, that’s priceless,_ he chuckled inwardly. He opened the door and found the office space bare, save for one mahogany desk and two black leather chairs. It was a cover if he’d ever seen one, men of this ilk often kept them for appearances. And tax purposes. A man sat behind the desk, engrossed in a file folder open in front of him.  He looked up from the papers at the sound of the door, and glancing at his watch, smiled, “They said you were punctual.”

Jorah closed the door and approached the desk, taking the man’s proffered hand, “I’m Aerys Targaryen II.” A tall man well past middle age, if his silver hair was any indication. Slicked back into a tight ponytail, it made his features sharp, severe. His eyes were an intense violet, a hint of madness lurking there. Dressed sharply in what looked like a very dark expensive suit, his tie was the color of freshly spilt blood and it only added to his menacing presence. His grip was firm, his hand exceedingly warm. His thin lips curled into a smirk, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

No name had been given during that first phone call, but research into the address Jorah had been given told him plenty. Aerys Targaryen, an international arms dealer carrying on the business started by his father decades ago. Widowed, father of two deceased sons. He financed genocides and peddled war to the highest bidder. His rifles, guns, and RPGs were no doubt responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths worldwide. He didn’t care who he sold to, as long as they paid. And paid well.

Aerys gestured to the chair in front of him before retaking his own. “I was just going over your file, Mr. Mormont. Graduate of Sandhurst. Former Commander in the British Army with service in the Gulf War and Afghanistan. Member of the SRR. Recipient of the Victoria Cross.  Quite an impressive resume. Your previous employer had nothing but good things to say about you:  Pragmatic, vigilant, a man who takes his job seriously. The file stated they called you,” he paused to search the page, “ah, ‘The Bear.’”

               Jorah very nearly rolled his eyes at that. Somehow, he always knew he would never live that nickname down. But it was the notion that Aerys knew all of these things about him despite the fact that information was supposed to be classified that really bothered him. “How did you get that file?”

               “I have my ways.” Jorah really wasn’t sure he wanted to know what those _ways_ were, given the sinister looking smile on Aerys’ face. They were most certainly nefarious.  He waved his hand dismissively, “In any case, you’re the right man for the job.”

               He took a manila envelope from underneath the file and slid it across the desk top. Then reaching inside his jacket pocket, an action which had Jorah on the alert, Aerys pulled out a white legal sized one. Jorah picked up both items, opening the packet first. Inside was a thick stack of paper banded bills, they were of large denomination and likely straight from some under-the-table deal. Based on a quick mental calculation and the fact that these notes were uncirculated currency and only printed by the Bank of Scotland, the amount of money in his hand was substantial. He had never been paid such a large sum for his services before. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, alarm bells ringing in his brain, his eyes darting between his hands. Something wasn’t adding up here and Jorah began to think he’d been drawn there under false pretenses. “You said you needed a bodyguard,” he held up the larger envelope, “I’m not an assassin.”

               “Just bloody open it.”

               Jorah hesitated, but finally did as ordered, thumbing open the metal clasp and reaching inside to retrieve a glossy piece of paper. It was indeed a photograph, one of a woman in her 20s with strikingly beautiful features. There was a family resemblance, what with the hair and eye color, but her face was softer, her expression smiling and happy. It was a candid picture, likely taken without her knowledge. _I found nothing in my research about her._ There was only one conclusion: “Your daughter.”

               Aerys nodded.

               “I thought you said _you_ needed a bodyguard.”

               “I do,” his head tilting toward the photo, “for her. Does it matter?”

               “No.”

               “Have you ever guarded a woman before?”

               “No.”

               “You’re very direct.” There was that ominous smile again, “You’ll do just fine.”

               While Jorah slipped the money into his jacket’s inner pocket, Aerys wrote something on his small legal pad before tearing off the sheet and holding it out to him. “You’re expected at this address in two hours. You’ll be living there full time. The maid will see to all of your housekeeping needs and meals. There will be a package waiting for you when you arrive and my daughter, Daenerys, will give you the tour. Try to keep her life as normal as possible.” Aerys stood and walked around his desk, buttoning his suit jacket, “Oh, there’s one more thing I forget to mention.” This man had more twists and turns than a mountain road. “Every month I expect a full report: where she goes, who she sees and speaks to, _everything._ ”

               Jorah bristled at the idea, but the weight of the money resting heavily in his pocket held the promise of home. He nodded in agreement, then shook on it. He tried to disengage his hand, but Aerys’ grip tightened. “I’m glad to see that won’t be a problem. The Army did teach you to follow orders after all.” Then he leaned in close, “Don’t let me down.”

               His tone told Jorah he wasn’t messing about. Aerys meant business, but so did he. “I won’t.”

***

               “Ms. Daenerys,” the maid said, entering the kitchen, “Your father call. He say your new bodyguard be here soon.”

               Daenerys closed the refrigerator door slowly, “Okay, thanks Lisette.”

               The older woman offered a small smile and a nod, then left. But Daenerys called after her, “Did he say what his name was?”

               “Mr. Mormont,” Lisette called back.

               _Mormont, interesting surname._ Daenerys sipped at her water; her mind lost in imagining what ‘Mr. Mormont’ looked like. The last name sounded stately, conjuring images of sprawling estates and men on horseback with hunting dogs. It sounded like it should have a title attached to it, like Sir or Lord. She laughed at that, but it still didn’t give her any clues as to his skin tone or facial features. Tall or average height, muscle bound or deceptively strong, handsome or unfortunately ugly, the possibilities ran the gamut. Nonetheless she held out hope that he would be at least somewhat kind and wouldn’t give her the heebie-jeebies like her last bodyguard did. Tall and heavily built with thick, corded muscle, there was something slightly _off_ in his eyes, something that disconcerted her greatly. He had done his job satisfactorily enough. Well, until…she shook her head hard with a heavy sigh, trying to get those thoughts out of her head. _It will be better this time_ , she promised herself. At least it couldn’t get any worse. Could it?

***

               Jorah stood on the threshold of his house, going over a mental checklist in his head so he wouldn’t forget something important. _I likely won’t be back here for a long while_ , he mused, fishing his keys out of his pocket and locking the door. He’d had his mail held at the postal office, his friend promising to take care of the rest in his absence. Walking to his car, he placed his bags in the boot and got behind the wheel, entering the address into the navigation system. Located in a tony neighborhood for the ultra-rich, he started to ponder what he would encounter once he arrived. But most importantly, he wondered about Daenerys. Would she be just like Aerys: self-absorbed, condescending, and entitled? He’d never been the bodyguard for a woman of any age, all of his previous clients had been prominent male businessmen and politicians. Would he have to approach this job differently than the others? He decided he’d wait until he met her before he’d make that judgement, he usually molded his style to each individual person. Some preferred a more hands-on approach, wanting Jorah to be involved in every aspect of their lives. Those were the clients he hated, they turned him into a glorified errand boy, fetching coffee and food at all hours. But they had been few and far between, the others had been alarmingly simple with their requirements.

It had been a long hiatus since his last job, the client had been a difficult one, very demanding. And they also weren’t a very good listener, ignoring Jorah’s warning of getting too close to the crowd at a political rally. They’d ended up stabbed and he’d ended up sacked. The whole situation had bothered him for a while, but he’d eventually let it go. This would be a good change of pace for him, not to mention a good challenge. And that was something he never shied away from.

The softly accented voice of his navigation system let Jorah know his destination was approaching on the left and he turned, pulling up to its tall black wrought iron gates.  He pressed the intercom button, announcing his arrival, waiting for the gates to open. He couldn’t help but notice the stone dragons perched almost sentry-like on either side of the entrance, the property itself surrounded by a high stone wall. A man’s voice crackled over the intercom and instructed him to drive to the end of the driveway and park next to the black BMW.

“Thank you,” Jorah replied before driving through.

He parked his car, removed his luggage from the boot and walked to the front door.  _It’s not a house, it’s a mansion_ , he thought, taking in the vastness of it.  Constructed of dark gray stone, its large, gleaming windows facing the drive. Modern in design, 2 story and boxy, with large amounts of metal and glass. He rang the doorbell and waited, a woman in a maid’s uniform appearing as the heavy black metal door opened.

She gestured for him to enter and closed the door after him before taking his two suitcases and asking in a heavily accented voice for him to wait a moment. _Greek_ , he concluded, watching her walk down a hallway to his right. He was left standing in the large open foyer, two metal and glass staircases bracketing the room that lead to the upstairs. The walls were the color of a stormy sea, a large crystal chandelier hung above him and the black marble floor beneath his feet was so clean he could see his reflection in it.

A large painting to his left caught his eye, a windswept cliffside overlooking a rough sea. He walked closer and set his duffle bag on the floor beside him, squinting a bit at the fine details. He noticed three dragons flying amongst the gray clouds, their ebony bodies and wings looked both powerful and majestic. _I’m beginning to sense a theme here_ , but was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of soft footfalls approaching.

Rounding the corner into the foyer, she saw him standing in front of her mother’s painting, hands clasped loosely behind his back. All she could process was that he was tall before he turned to face her. _Whoa, not unfortunate at all._

“You must be Mr. Mormont,” she said with a smile, the closer she got to him the more she had to tilt her head up to look at him. _He’s much taller than I thought._

“Miss Targaryen.”

Her cheeks suddenly felt warm; she hadn’t been called ‘Miss’ by anyone in her entire life. “Oh, that’s not necessary. It’s just Daenerys.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled softly, “All right…Daenerys.” His voice was rich and warm, like fine melted chocolate. And she _really_ liked the way he said her name. “Then it’s just Jorah.”

“Jorah,” she repeated, acquainting herself with the pronunciation. His name suited him for some reason. She took his outstretched hand, her own appeared small by comparison. His grip was firm, but not to the extent that it would make her hand hurt once it was over, the warmth it left in its wake was strangely comforting.

“Would you like the tour now or…”

“Now if you don’t mind.”

_So polite, that’s different._ “Okay, we’ll start upstairs first.” He waited until she started toward the staircase, maintaining a polite distance. She went left first, gesturing to closed doors, telling him what was in there, then going back the way they came to show him the right side. She would glance back occasionally to see if he was still there, he walked so quietly and hardly said anything, save for a question here or there for clarification. He seemed to just be taking it all in. She understood, the house was big and had more rooms than they really needed, but that was the way her father liked things: big and ostentatious. It was probably also a logistical nightmare for him, so many points of entry to watch over.

Once back downstairs, she showed him her father’s study, home gym, laundry room, maid’s quarters, kitchen, sitting room, and TV room. Then she went to the solarium which exited to the indoor pool, its floor to ceiling windows letting in large amounts of natural light. From there, she showed him the sun deck and small back garden. They were surrounded on all sides by very high ivy-covered walls, bits of gray stone peeking through, the tops adorned with sharp black wrought iron spikes. Jorah asked if there were any back entrances to the house and was relieved to discover that the only way in was through the front gate.

A house of this size and owned by someone as suspicious as Aerys had to have a security system. Daenerys confirmed this for him, taking him to the nerve center through a hidden hatch in the laundry room. It was simply a bank of computer screens, showing him various areas of the house and grounds. He asked to see the outside again and she escorted him to the garden once more. That’s when she realized he was still carrying a small duffle bag in his hand. He crouched by the sliding glass door and unzipped the bag, taking out a small box.

“What’s that,” she asked pointing to the thin, electronic device he had just removed from its wrapper.

“It’s a perimeter breach detector.” She watched him fit it to the trim, her eyebrows rising when it nearly disappeared into the seam where door met wall. Unless someone was searching for it, they’d never see it. “If someone tries to forcibly gain entry, I’ll be alerted on this,” his hand holding up a small key fob-like device.

“Wow, so that’s going on all of the doors?”

“Just the ones on the first floor. Windows too.”

“Huh, my last bodyguard never thought of that.”

“I suppose I’m full service then.”

Daenerys burst out laughing, the tinkling sound bright and cheerful. Jorah glanced up at her, surprised that his off-handed comment was really that funny. But her expression was genuine, the laughter reaching all the way to her eyes.

Her smile, with its two deep dimples, was beautiful. Contagious too. His heart lightened at the sight of it, and when it finally faded, he found himself wanting to see it again.

“You’ve got a dry sense of humor, you know that.” The happiness still evident in her twinkling eyes.

“So I’ve been told.” The corner of his own lips quirking again.

“I like it,” she concluded.

They continued on, securing all of the windows and doors before returning inside.  

Back in the foyer, Jorah stopped and asked, “Where is your room?”

“This way.” She led him down the hallway to their right. It was the first door they encountered.

“Are there other bedrooms on this floor?” His eyes counting four more doors further ahead.

“Yeah, three plus a converted bedroom that we use for storage now.”

“The maid took the rest of my bags down this hall, but I didn’t see where she put them.”

“Oh, I saw her put them in the room two doors down from mine. If that’s not okay, I can ask-”

“It’s all right, I can move them myself. I don’t want to trouble her.”

Daenerys looked at him for a long moment, “You’re different.”

The way she said it, it was clearly a good thing.

***

Later that night, lying in bed, Jorah reflected on the day’s events and he arrived at a very important conclusion: Daenerys was nothing like her father. While a bit shy at first, she seemed to warm to him quickly. He discovered she liked to talk, and based on the array of subjects she had knowledge of, she was bright. Having graduated from university with a degree in Art, she talked mostly about that. And Jorah enjoyed it, seeing as he knew very little compared to her. He spent most of his evening listening, which was all right by him, he usually only talked when he needed to. He found he learned more about a person and who they really were just by letting _them_ talk. He wondered if all the time she’d spent in that big house with just the maid meant she was in real need of companionship. He could offer her that, he understood what it was like to live alone. He’d done it for the last six years, and while he tolerated it well enough, it didn’t seem like Daenerys did.

While he tried to keep his mind away from her appearance, the memory of her eyes kept drawing him back. They were the most beautiful he had ever seen, reminiscent of glittering amethysts, they were so expressive. Just like her eyebrows, which seemed to have a mind of their own, animating her words. The way she’d looked up at him when they’d first met, curiously appraising, had him wondering what she thought of him. She seemed to approve if her smile was to be believed. She only came up to his chin and it was her petite stature that had the protectiveness in him flaring.

But it was something intangible he felt when she was near. No nerves, no restlessness, just a sense of calm. A feeling that he hadn’t felt around someone in longer than he could remember. And he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing given his position. So, he decided to ignore it, hoping it would go away.


	3. Dinner and Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys receives some good news from a friend. Jorah and Daenerys cook dinner together, learning a few new things about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! I am floored (and very humbled) by the overwhelming response to this story. Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments and kudos. They mean so much to me! I will be responding to each comment this weekend (I'll finally have some extended free time to do so).
> 
> And because I'm in such a good mood, I'm posting *2* chapters this week :D
> 
> Chapter warnings: none

Daenerys was reading a novel when her mobile rang. Only four people had her phone number. Her father had been furious when he was made aware that others had it, he thought only he should. She had figured it was because he was worried for her safety, but when he’d raged that it put his business at risk, she’d felt hurt. But it really shouldn’t have come as such a shock to her, he always put everything in his life before her. She answered the call on the third ring, a familiar voice crackling amongst the static before the connection cleared.

               “Missi,” Daenerys exclaimed, “It’s been so long! Gods, how have you been?”

               “Pretty good. I would’ve called sooner, but mobile service is really spotty here.”

               “That’s okay, I’m just happy to hear from you. How’s work?”

“Busy,” she sighed, “It’s been non-stop these last few weeks. I’ll be so glad when it’s over and I can come home. Which, I’m happy to report, is in three weeks.”

               Daenerys could hear the grin in her friend’s voice. “Really?! We definitely need to get together.”

               “Absolutely. An afternoon of shopping perhaps?”

               “You got it,” she agreed with a laugh.

               “How are things there?” Missandei’s tone flattened, “Is your father around?”

               “He left over a month ago.”

               “Wait, you’re all alone there?”

               Daenerys could hear the panic starting to color her friend’s words. “No, I have a new bodyguard.”

               There was a long, relieved sigh, then, “What’s he or she like?”

               _Jorah._ She smiled to herself, “He’s… _different_.”

               “Like ‘good’ different or ‘creepy like the last bodyguard’ different?”

               “Definitely a good different.”

               “I hear that smile in your voice, D, don’t hold out on me. Gimme details.”

               “Well, he’s very polite and respectful. He doesn’t say much, but it’s not in that weird silent way the last bloke did.” Daenerys paused, “You know what I like most about him though. He makes me feel safe without crowding me.”

               “Thank the gods he isn’t like the last one. I’m surprised your father was able to pick such a good one this time.”

               “Me too. But I don’t think he picked him because he’s kind. Jorah’s ex-military.”

               “Ah, that’s why.”

               The line grew quiet and Daenerys knew what that meant. “You want to know what he looks like.”

               Missandei giggled, but said nothing. Daenerys rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She knew her friend too well, although she wasn’t as bad as Doreah. Looks would have been the first thing she would have asked about. “He’s tall. Not overly muscular, but he looks strong. Jorah’s sorta got a footballer’s body. He has ginger-blonde hair and blue eyes. And when he smiles, it gives me comfort. That’s weird, I know.”

               “No, its not,” Missandei asserted, “I’ve always thought that when certain people smile, you can see who they really are. Their kindness comes through.”

               And that was so true of Jorah. She hadn’t been able to put her finger on what it was about his smiles that made her feel that way, but her friend put it so succinctly. “It’s so strange, but I feel so comfortable with him, like we’ve known each other a long time.”

               “I’m happy for you, D. It’s about time.”

               She could tell Missandei’s sentiment was genuine. They had long talks in the past, her friend offering a listening ear when she needed to vent about her father or brother. And Daenerys had done the same, Missandei’s own life full of hardships. Friends since early childhood, they’d met in primary school before Daenerys’ father had removed her from it to have her homeschooled. They had stayed friends, attending university together, Daenerys for art, Missandei for international relations.

               “I have some other good news,” Missandei said.

               “Ooo, tell me.”

               “I’m bringing someone back with me.”

               “You met a guy,” Daenerys asked excitedly, “Details, Missi!”

               “His name is Grey and I met him while I was working with the UN peacekeeping mission as a translator. He’s the strong, silent type, but he’s such a sweetheart.”

               “Aww, I’m so happy for you! I can’t wait to meet him _and_ see you. We _really_ need to catch up.”

               “Definitely. I’ll text you once I’m back.”

               “Great! Talk to you then.”

               They said their goodbyes and Daenerys hung up. Three weeks, she couldn’t wait. It also happened to be the same time that her other friends would be getting back from their holidays. It would be so nice to have them all back.

***

“Jorah, Lisette’s feeling a bit under the weather, so we’re on our own for dinner. Know any good recipes?”

               She stood leaning against the back of the couch; her hair done in a messy bun. She’d been in the gym, running on the treadmill when he’d last checked. Her lightweight black fleece jumper was zipped up, her matching yoga pants patterned with what looked like red iridescent scales down the sides of each leg. He had learned very early in his stay that she loved lizards, he found sketches of them around the house and doodled in the margins of his daily paper when she’d borrow a section to read. It was one of a few things that gave her joy, not to mention, he thought her artistic skills were top notch.

               “A few.” He stood, following her into the kitchen.

               Opening the refrigerator first, he searched the drawers and shelves for particular ingredients. Eventually, he had bright orange carrots, leafy stalks of celery, a netted bag of red skinned potatoes, an onion, a bag of frozen peas and a package of lamb cut into chunks. He moved to the cupboard, taking out jars of seasonings and cartons of beef stock. He seemed to know where everything was, it made her feel somewhat guilty that she had never seen to her own cooking. “What are we making?”

               “Lamb stew.”

               “Where did you learn that recipe from?”

               “Late night TV.”

               She looked at him skeptically. “So you were up late one night and just happened on a cooking show with this dish?”

               “Something like that.”

               She shrugged. “Well, if it’s anything like your sandwiches, then it’ll be good.” She pushed up her sleeves past her elbows. “How can I help?”

               “Rinse and cut these into cubes,” he said, placing the potatoes by the sink. “Then you can work on the celery and carrots.”

               “Okay.” Cutting into the bag, she dumped the potatoes into the sink and rinsed them with cold water. The knives she knew were in a wooden block on the counter and she choose the one she thought would get the job done.

               “Whoa there,” Jorah said suddenly, noticing the bread knife in her hand. He reached for the chef’s knife and handed it to her handle first, “This one’s a better choice.”

               “Oh,” she said sheepishly, but he offered her a small, reassuring smile before removing his suit jacket and draping it over a nearby chair. Undoing the buttons at the cuffs, he rolled up his sleeves, baring his lean forearms. Daenerys hadn’t seen any part of his body like this, her eyes lingering on the play of his muscles as he set to work opening the lamb, the dusting of ginger hair there looked soft. She glanced away, “Did your mother used to cook for you?”

               His fingers fumbled with the wrapper. “I never knew my mother. She died when I was very young.”

               “I’m sorry, Jorah, I didn’t-”

               “No need to apologize, you couldn’t have known.”

“It was just you and your father then?” He nodded. “Tell me about him. Was he a soldier too?”

               “A great one, served in the Army for over 25 years. A bit gruff, not overly sentimental, but he was an honourable man.”

               Daenerys picked up on the past tense. “I’m sorry.”

               “I am too.”

               She wondered what he meant by that as she dumped the cubed starchy tuber into the pot. “Were you with him when he passed?”

               “No.” Jorah stared ahead, deep in thought for a moment before he was looking at her again, “We had a falling out some years ago.”

               “Oh,” she said simply.

               They worked in silence for a while before Jorah said, “Tell me about your mother.”

               Daenerys’ lips set in a melancholy smile. “She was…you know, it’s funny, the things I should remember, like what she looked like, I don’t. But one of the memories I do have of her is that she would sit behind me on my bed, combing and braiding my hair, singing songs in a language I didn’t understand.” She looked up at him and Jorah could see her eyes were slightly glassy, “The more I try to hold on to them, the more they fade.”

               “That’s the unfortunate part about memories.”

               “Not all of them,” she mumbled derisively, the blade cutting through the carrot to the board below with a bit more force than necessary.

               While they worked on the rest of the recipe in silence, Jorah thought about what Daenerys had said. He knew well how some memories never left you, they stuck in your brain like a popcorn hull between your teeth. He had his fair share of those: the war, his ex-wife, the last conversation he had with his father. He knew only bits and pieces about her past so far and his research into Aerys hadn’t even revealed he had a daughter. He had wondered about that: why keep her a secret? To protect her from his enemies, or perhaps, he was ashamed he had a daughter instead of a son. Some men thought that way about children, they wanted boys to carry on the family name. A girl was somehow less. Aerys seemed like the type who would espouse that idea. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what memories of hers stubbornly refused to fade.

               When the stew was ready, Jorah served them each a healthy portion, the delicious smell wafting from the bowl had her stomach growling in earnest. They sat down across from one another at the glass dining table, her leg drawn up onto the seat. Jorah had taken note of that the very first day, she always sat that way while she ate. He found her openly eyeing his shoulder holster. “Have you ever had to use that?”

               “A few times.”

               He seemed to take pride in that fact and she found it oddly comforting. When she had first met him, she’d speculated about his past. Was he ex-police? But when he had mentioned something about the Army, it all made sense. The questions about the layout of the house and grounds, entrances and exits, he had been making a map in his mind, like soldiers did before entering enemy territory. There had been a spark of something in his eyes that day, just as there was now, and she hadn’t been able to figure it out until weeks later. Despite his previous occupation, and his current one, that spark was one of humanity, that taking a life wasn’t something to be done lightly.

Then there was the kindness he only directed at her. Of course, he was pleasant and respectful to the maid, seeing to his own breakfast and lunch, as well as his laundry and making his own bed. He cleaned up after himself, trying his best not to give her too much unnecessary work. But it was in his eyes, ones she had no trouble admitting to herself were the most beautiful shade of blue she’d ever seen, that she saw exactly what he was feeling and thinking. They were so expressive, she wondered if he was conscious of that or not. Some people talked with their hands, others their eyebrows, like her, but Jorah, he spoke with his eyes. Even in silence, which he often was, he was still talking to her. It was strange how comfortable she felt with him, how easy they had fallen into a routine, a friendship. He greeted her with a small, warm smile every morning and said ‘good night’ to her every night, even if they had dinner at separate times. They watched TV together sometimes and he was more than a bit surprised to find she liked fantasy and action films as opposed to dramas or romantic comedies. That was, until last night, when he caught her watching _Dirty Dancing_ , her foot tapping to the beat. She’d nearly jumped out of her seat, fumbling for the remote to change the channel. Jorah wasn’t sure why she was so embarrassed about liking it and her jaw had nearly hit the floor when he’d taken a seat on the couch to join her. He was a bit of a mystery to her, but she liked that about him. The fact that he was different was refreshing.

“How long were you in the Army,” she asked, out of the blue.

“16 years.”

“Wow.” Her eyebrows shot up, “Why did you leave?”

“I’d had enough. It takes its toll on a person.”

 “I’m sure.” She took a drink of her water, “Where did you serve?”

Jorah wiped his mouth on the black cloth napkin before answering, “Iraq for a short time, but Afghanistan mostly.”

Daenerys had seen pictures of the war there, the devastation left in the wake of bombings, the people cradling their dead loved ones, their children. That had been bad enough, she couldn’t imagine actually being there. “Do you miss it?”

He used his spoon to push around his food, seemingly thinking about his past. “Some aspects: helping people, protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves, the comradery.”

“What don’t you miss?”

“Everything else,” he said plainly before spooning a mouthful in and chewing it slowly. There was a flash of pain in his eyes before he covered it up. “Do you like it?” He gestured at her bowl.

“Very much. How many times have you made it?”

“I’ve lost count over the years.”

“Did you cook this for your wife?” Jorah’s hand froze poised above his bowl. She knew instantly she’d hit a sore nerve. “Sorry, I-”

“No, it’s all right.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat before set his spoon down. “She didn’t-she wasn’t one for home-cooked meals.”

Two things were now obvious to Daenerys: Jorah was no longer married and the marriage hadn’t ended well. She wasn’t sure how she made the second conclusion, perhaps it was something she saw in the hard set of his jaw and the wounded look in his eyes. Always his eyes.

“How did you know I was married?”

He looked at her with a narrowed gaze, but there a teasing quirk to the corner of his lips. She chewed her mouthful, “It was just a guess really. I mean, a man your age has to have been married at least once or have been in a serious, long-term relationship.”

“ _A man your age_ ,” he repeated, sitting back in his chair. That quirk of his lips had spread, “Just how old do you think I am?”

She tilted her head to the side, giving him an appraising look. “44.”

He was impressed. “Close. 45.”

“I’ve always been really good at guessing people’s ages,” she said with a smile. “Do you have any strange talents?”

“Not really.” He seemed to think for a moment, “Well, I can roll my tongue.”

Then he did it, which made Daenerys giggle for some reason. “I can too!”

She did it and Jorah couldn’t help but chuckle. It was such a good feeling to share a meal with someone, sharing conversation and laughter. It sure as Seven Hells beat eating alone in silence, although he had mostly gotten used to it in the last several months since he’d been sacked.

Later, while Jorah was rinsing their dishes and utensils in the sink, he said, “You asked a lot of questions tonight.”

“Well, seeing as you let me talk most of the time, I thought I’d like to get to know more about _you_. You’re…”

“Different,” he supplied.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “We should eat together every night. I had a good time.”

“So did I.” And he gave Daenerys one of his rare, full-on smiles. Often, if he did smile, it resided mostly in his eyes or curled just one side of his lips. There was something about the dimple dotting his cheek, the way the expression lit up his whole face, that warmed her and made her feel happy. Her father’s smile sent a chill down her spine, not solely because of how it sharpened his features, but because it was regularly in gleeful pleasure at someone else’s pain or misfortune.

They spent the rest of the evening watching a film, and once it was over, they went their separate ways to bed.


	4. Being Watched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys has her first brush with danger. Later, Daenerys and her friends talk about Jorah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we meet Barristan, Doreah, and Irri for the first time. They'll appear again later.
> 
> Warnings: a curse word, some suggestive dialogue.

It didn’t happen until late August. She’d spent most of her time at home, waiting for her friends to get back from their holidays. Jorah knew about them in the abstract, tidbits of information she’d told him in conversation. Missandei, her best friend since childhood, was a translator at the UN office in London. Doreah and Irri, foreign exchange students she had met while at university, were back in their home country, visiting family. But they would be back soon and Daenerys was planning a whole host of outings and get togethers to enjoy the warmth of summer before it grew colder again.

One morning, Missandei phoned to set up their aforementioned shopping trip and Daenerys suggested they go that afternoon, much to Jorah’s mild chagrin. He wasn’t a fan of shopping centres. They were crowded and noisy, but not just that, he didn’t really like shopping. He held on to clothes until they practically fell off of him and only went to buy new things when he absolutely had to. Nevertheless, they got into his car and went to pick her up, her flat in a neighborhood vastly different from Daenerys’. But he liked those places: the ethnic foods, the scent of spices in the air brought back some of the better memories of his time in the Army. Missandei was waiting outside like Jorah had requested, it was far easier than having to park and walk to the building. Less exposure.

She was a pleasant young woman, a bit quiet and reserved, but when Jorah asked what languages she spoke, her eyes lit up, all too eager to converse with someone who understood. Daenerys looked between the two with amusement, she’d never heard Jorah speak in any other language but English. She enjoyed it, although she wished she knew what they were saying. Missandei filled her in later, once they arrived at the car park. Daenerys stifled a giggle at the look on Jorah’s face when he discovered they’d be shopping at Harrods. He had clearly never been there before, and the way his eyebrows rose at the number of zeros on many of the price tags, it was almost comical. Still, he said nothing and didn’t rush them, keeping a polite distance. Occasionally, his hand would rest gently against her back to steer her through a particularly crowded area or into the lift, but that was the only time he got really close. The feel of his hand there was reassuring, a gentlemanly gesture. She found she liked it, along with all of the other little ways he turned out to be chivalrous: pulling out her chair for her at the café when they stopped to take a break, holding the door open for her and Missandei, referring to them as ‘ladies’. She had never been around a man like him before. It was refreshing to know that there were still men out there who were like that, who treated women with respect and kindness. She didn’t really have much experience with that after all.

By late afternoon, they had enough of shopping, though they had purchased only an item each. And, quite frankly, Jorah had too. But he kept it to himself. Walking a step behind them across the car park, Jorah noticed a man leaning against a black Mercedes parked to his left. Shaved head, thin, black goatee, average height and build. He had not seen him inside the store, so he assumed that he had been waiting outside for them, alerted to their arrival by someone watching from somewhere else. Cigarette in hand, he tried to look inconspicuous, but he was failing miserably.  Jorah had been in the business long enough to notice when someone was out of place; it was his posture that gave him away, tense and hyper alert, his eyes darting to them and then away rapidly, his hand shaking a bit as he brought the cigarette to his lips for a short drag. 

               “Keep walking. Look straight ahead.”

               His whispered order left no room for argument and both women did as instructed, their pace quickening, their grip tightening on their purses for some reason almost at the same time. Luckily, he had chosen to park at the end of the line of cars, making their getaway faster. Thumbing the button on his key fob that both started and unlocked the car, he opened the door for them and they clamored quickly inside. He was behind the wheel in no time and had the car in reverse before they could even finish fastening their seatbelts. He sped from the lot, a glance in his rearview mirror showed the man scrambling to get in his car. Jorah had memorized the registration plate, a foreign one, the script all too familiar to him. Once they were on the road, he kept an eye out for it or any other car that stood out. But, luckily for them, none did. That didn’t mean they were out of the woods yet, so he took a longer route home than usual. They didn’t stop until he had them safely behind the wrought iron gates.

               The entire drive, Daenerys and her friend had been silent, exchanging wide-eyed glances. It was only when they were in the house with the door locked that she started questioning him. “Who was that man in the car park? What…”

               “Missandei, my apologies for what just happened.” He looked to Daenerys, “Please take your friend into the kitchen. There’s something I need to do.”

               Daenerys didn’t like that he was ignoring her questions, but she did as he asked, watching him over her shoulder until he disappeared around the corner. He went to Aerys’ study and shut the door. Searching the desk, he found a pen and paper. Closing his eyes, he pictured the registration plate in his mind’s eye, the pen moving over the page. Once he was done, he snapped a photo with his mobile and made a call to the one person he trusted to keep this confidential, an old friend from the Army who now worked for British Intelligence.

               “Barristan, it’s been a while.  How are things?

               “Going well enough. How’s the new job treating you?”

               Jorah shook his head, unsurprised that his friend knew. “Uneventful until today. Can you do me a favor?”

               “Of course, what do you need?”

               Jorah sighed. “I’m texting you an image. I need you to find out what you can.”

               “Send it over, I’ll give it a go and let you know if I discover anything. It might take some time.”

               “That’s all right. Thanks.”

               “Not a problem. Goodbye, Jorah.”

               He ended the call and attached the photo to an encrypted text message and tapped send. Now all he could do was wait.

               He found Daenerys in the kitchen, both women sitting at the island, nursing mugs of tea. “That man outside of Harrods. That’s what you saw. Why you told us to keep walking,” she stated without looking up from her cup.

               “Yes.” He rounded the island to take a seat on one of the high bar chairs. “We can talk more about it later.”

               Daenerys watched him through narrowed eyes, clearly, she wasn’t pleased by his deflection. She took a sip of her tea, then slid off of her chair. “Missi and I are going to my room.”

               Her friend followed suit, glancing once at Jorah before she left. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. It had been a stressful afternoon and they both likely needed time to decompress, so he let them relax. Any residual adrenaline he had felt was long gone; his mind now sharp and focused on a plan for the future. So, he spent the afternoon checking the house and grounds just to be sure. He wasn’t in the mood for any more surprises.

***

               After a dinner eaten mostly in silence, Daenerys and Missandei had gone back to her room once more. Eventually her friend had fallen asleep beside her while they watched TV. Daenerys had been only half paying attention, her mind stuck on the events of that day. She still felt shaken, a little rattled. It was an unnerving feeling; one she hadn’t felt in some time.

               Leaving her friend to sleep, Daenerys went off in search of Jorah. But he wasn’t anywhere in the house. It wasn’t until she looked out the front window that she found him crouched at the front end of his car. Grabbing her jacket from the coat rack, she went outside. The air was cool and still, a nice contrast to the daytime. The boot was open and she peeked inside, the liner lifted to reveal a hidden compartment. Two sets of registration plates. A white metal box with latches, a big red cross on the lid. And she couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a spare clip for his handgun half concealed underneath.

               The gravel crunching under her boots alerted Jorah to her arrival. He stood, his suit jacket missing, draped on the gleaming bonnet. Her eyes lingered on the firearm holstered at his ribs, “Would you have used that today?”

               “Yes, if it had been absolutely necessary.” He changed subjects when he saw her swallow hard. “How’s Missandei?”

               “She seems okay. She’s sleeping.” Daenerys walked around to stand next to him, “Missi’s very practical about these sorts of things.”

               He nodded. “More importantly, how are you?” He was watching her intently, his brow furrowed slightly with concern.

               She sighed, rubbing at her upper arm unconsciously. “Okay.”

               He knew she wasn’t ‘okay’. “If you need to talk, I’m here.” His words were soft and sincere, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder gently, the warmth from it relieving some of her uneasiness.

               “I know. It’s just…” she shook her head, “I thought I was used to this sort of thing. I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time its ever happened.”

               “No one ever gets used to these things.”

               “You seemed extremely calm, like it was an everyday thing for you.”

               He leaned back against his car, “It’s years of training. But that doesn’t mean it makes it easier.”

               “How do you deal with the…anxiety,” she asked, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

               “Do something you love. Distract yourself.”

               “What do you do? Work on cars,” she asked with a half-smile, gesturing to his vehicle.

               “I read mostly. Watch a bit of telly now and again.”

               “Lamb stew?” Her smile had finally spread to her eyes.

               He mirrored her expression, “Something like that.”

His full-on smiles, though few and far between, were comforting. Like precious little gifts, she treasured each one. And it occurred to her that she hadn’t thought about what had happened for the last few minutes. Perhaps it wasn’t his intention, but she was no less grateful. “Thanks, Jorah.”

               He nodded and retrieved his jacket, slipping it on. Then he went to the boot, lowered the liner back into place, and shut it before engaging the alarm with a press of a button. “What were you doing anyway?”

               He hesitated, somewhat unsure if he wanted to bring the topic up again. “I was changing the plates. That man likely saw them.”

               “Oh. You have more than one set?”

“In this line of work, you have to.”

She didn’t want to know how he had obtained them; Daenerys was just glad he did.

               “Let’s get inside, you look a bit cold.”

               She nodded, although her shivering was not entirely from the drop in temperature.

***

               “He’s ex-military.”

               Daenerys looked over at the woman next to her. Doreah lay on her stomach, her sunglasses perched on the top of her head, staring into the house.

               “Who? Jorah?” She nodded, “Yeah, the Army. How’d you know?”

               “Soldiers have a _look_.”

               Daenerys was intrigued. “A look?”

               “Yeah, the way they stand, carry themselves. Plus, he was super polite. He called us ‘ladies’.” She snorted a laugh, “If he only knew.”

               “Doreah,” Daenerys exclaimed softly.

               Her friend wasn’t shy about expressing her attraction to men or her sexuality, but she wasn’t what some people would call a ‘slut’. She hated that word and Doreah did too. Men who got around were called ‘studs’ and they both thought there should be some positive name for women who did too. ‘A woman embracing her sexuality shouldn’t be demonized by society’, Doreah would often say. Daenerys agreed, although she only slept with a guy when she had some feelings for them.

               “So, have you and Jorah…” Doreah asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

               “No!” Daenerys looked aghast, “First of all, I’ve only known him for a few months. Secondly, he’s my bodyguard and friend. I couldn’t-”

               “Why not?” She sat up, crossing her legs, “If I was in your place, I’d have been all over him by now. Guard my body indeed,” her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip before she drew it between her teeth.

               Daenerys just rolled her eyes. “Well, _ladies_ , what do you have to say about it?”

               To her left lay Missandei, seemingly asleep until she answered lazily, “Jorah’s not really my type, but I think he’s handsome.”

               Now there were two in agreement. Her last hope was Irri, sunning herself on the last chaise, her nose buried in the latest issue of Cosmo. “Your father do much better this time. Last bodyguard look like back end of donkey.”

               Everyone burst into hysterical laughter. It was true after all. The part about Jorah…well, that was another matter. Daenerys pictured him, his calming eyes, like fathomless cerulean pools, his small, gentle smile. He _was_ handsome. And she wasn’t going to admit it to her friends because she’d never hear the end of it, but she had thought so long before they brought the topic up.

               “You know what they say about older blokes,” Doreah remarked before draining her glass of iced tea, “They’re _great_ in bed.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Personal experience.”

“That was one bloke last summer.”

“And the one I’m seeing now.” Doreah looked quite happy with herself.

“Okay, okay _two_ men,” Daenerys conceded.

“Still, both of them have given a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘ladies first’…and second,” she added with a wink.

Daenerys blushed, her experiences with the opposite sex had been, for lack of a better word, _disappointing_. She wondered what it would be like to have a man see to her desires first, to have him take his time and show her what it was _supposed_ to be like.

“Every woman needs a ‘silver fox’ at least once in her life to truly appreciate great sex,” Irri’s voice cutting through Daenerys’ thoughts.

“What?”

“Cosmopolitan say,” she put the magazine down, “it is known.”

The women around her made sounds in agreement, then Doreah said, “Well, in Daenerys’ case, it’s more like a ginger fox.”

That comment was met with snickering to which she tossed a damp towel at her friend’s face. “Tell me I’m lying,” came the muffled reply.

Daenerys sat up, grabbing her bathing suit coverup and empty glass, “I’ve had enough sun for one day. Anyone hungry?”

She really wasn’t, but she didn’t feel like getting teased about Jorah anymore. Her friends seemed to be in agreement and followed her inside.

***

               Jorah looked out at the young women lying beneath the late August sun, the temperature just warm enough. He was glad to see her so happy, enjoying the company of her friends. It was his first time meeting Doreah and Irri. The former was confident and had clearly been flirting with him earlier that afternoon. The latter was quieter and more reserved, but no less polite. Missandei, well, he already knew her. He had been glad they’d decided to go out onto the deck, it gave him an opportunity to review the file Barristan had sent him by courier that morning. The fact that it took him so long to provide him with this information regarding the man from the car park had him concerned. But once he had seen the large black and white photo, he knew it was the same person. The accompanying one-page typed document gave him all sorts of pertinent data: the man’s name, where he was from, but most importantly, what group he belonged to: The Scarlet Scimitar.  A rebel faction, these men were ruthless, almost as evil as those they fought against. He sat back in his chair, taking in the note Barristan had written in his neat script along the bottom of the page: Aerys Targaryen supplies these men with their arms. _Shite_ , he thought, running a hand through his hair.

               Laughter brought him out of his thoughts, the sliding glass door opening as Daenerys and her friends came inside. They were too busy in their conversation to notice him slip the folder under his suit jacket lying on the table.

               Doreah leaned back against the counter, arching her back just enough to draw attention to her fringed bikini top. “You should’ve joined us outside, Jorah. It was a lovely day to be lying under the sun.”

               He offered her a polite smile, his eyes trained on her face. “And blind everyone with how pale my skin is? I think I’ll spare everyone that sight.”

               “That’s a shame.” She muttered under her breath before Daenerys furtively elbowed her and shot her a look. “What?” she mouthed back at her.

               The two women thought their exchange had gone unnoticed, but they could not have been more wrong. Jorah had heard her and clearly so had her other friends, their eyes rolling as if this was a common occurrence. Missandei linked arms with Irri and they walked from the kitchen, engaged in some conversation. Doreah stayed behind, however, taking her time pouring herself another glass of iced tea. There was a look in Daenerys’ eyes while she stood beside her friend. He’d never seen it before and it was gone in a flash. _Was that jealousy?_ He didn’t have time to think about it long, Doreah giving him one last once over before leaving to join the others on the large leather sofa.

               Daenerys watched her leave, shaking her head. “Sorry about that.”

               “It’s all right.”

               She left and plopped down next to Doreah. “You’re incorrigible.”

               Feigning innocence, she replied, “Who, me? Come on, _really_ look at him and tell me I’m wrong.”

               She half-turned and gazed over the back of the sofa, watching him talk on his mobile. Jorah had removed his suit jacket earlier that afternoon, leaving him in his shoulder holster and crisp white dress shirt. The fabric stretched and clung to the broadness of his shoulders, his torso tapering to his narrowed waist, something in the striking difference between the two very attractive. Deceptive strength, that’s what it was. His black dress slacks clung to his backside, and though she had never really stared at Jorah, certainly not _that_ part of him, she wasn’t hard pressed to admit it was very nicely muscled. The fabric hugged the muscles of his thighs, toned but not bulky from years of playing football, so he had once told her. His golden-reddish hair curled at his collar, it looked so soft and she was surprised at the sudden urge that hit her. She wanted to run her fingers through it, just as his were now, an action she had always found extremely sexy.

Then he turned, seemingly too engrossed in his conversation to notice her perusal. He had faint lines of expression across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, those she knew deepened when he smiled. His short sandy beard was flecked with a few grey whiskers. The facial hair framed his lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top. His eyes met hers just then and she knew instantly she had been caught staring. She sunk down into the cushions and worried her bottom lip. Sometimes she hated when her friend was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the weird formatting of the last two chapters :/


	5. Amalgamation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah visit her favorite museum, but someone is watching them. Later, Jorah opens a long-closed room that restores a piece of Daenerys' past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a quick 'thank you' to everyone who has commented/left kudos/read this work! I'm overwhelmed with the amazing support you all have given me :D
> 
> And since I'm in such a good mood, here's another 2 chapter update!
> 
> I've included the link to the poem Jorah recites a portion of (in case anyone wants to read the whole thing): https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45359/the-lady-of-shalott-1832
> 
> Chapter warnings: None.

One afternoon, Daenerys decided she wanted to go to her favorite art museum. Jorah liked art and museums, so he had no issue with following her around. They had already been to a few others, but this was the first time they would be visiting this specific one.

               Once there, he studied the map of the place, memorizing exits and layouts in case a situation arose. They started on the upper floor as that was where all of her favorite paintings were located. Moving from gallery to gallery, they commented on various works. She soon discovered that he liked art from the Romantic period, just like she did. And while she was a bit surprised that a man of the military would understand the nuance and interpretation of the various pieces, she still couldn’t help but be impressed.

               When they came to the last gallery on that floor, she stopped in front of a particular painting. A wistful expression took over her features, “This one has always been my favorite. I used to sit on the bench in front of it and stare at it for hours with my mother when I was little. Then I would go home and try to copy what I had seen. It always turned out really bad though.”

               Jorah recognized the painting, _The Lady of Shalott_.  He started to recite, almost to himself, the lines that inspired it, “And down the river’s dim expanse, Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance –With glassy countenance, Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day, She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.” He found her staring at him, her jaw hanging open. “What?”

               She shook her head slightly, a hint of disbelief in her voice, “You know Tennyson?”

               “You seem surprised.”

               “I don’t mean it that way; I guess I just didn’t expect that. Is there anything you can’t do or don’t know?”

               “Oh, there are plenty of things. I read quite a bit growing up. I didn’t have many friends; books and football were my favorite things.”

               “A bit of a book worm, huh?” She chuckled. “Me too. My mother was always buying me one of two things: art supplies or books. She read to me when I was little and she’d take me to any art museum she could find. By the time I was four, I knew more about Monet and Waterhouse than I did about Sesame Street and Barney. So you can imagine I was _really_ popular amongst kids my own age: the girl with the silver hair and violet eyes who loved art and books.”

               “But I bet you couldn’t care less what they thought.”

She nodded. “I had Missandei and my mother, they were my best friends. My older brother, Viserys, never wanted to play with me and my father seemed to always be away on business. And, when we went to the museums, we had to leave my brother at home because he would make a face and pitch a fit.”

               “And he was the older child?”  She rolled her eyes. “Your love of art started early. Did your mother encourage you to major in it at the university?”

               A sadness came over her. “My mother passed away when I was five. My father never talked about her after that.”

               “I’m sorry,” Jorah said softly, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder briefly, then falling back to his side. “The painting in the foyer. Was that the last work she created?”

               “One of, anyway. She called it ‘My Three Dragons.’ I’m not sure why she referred to us as ‘dragons’, but she said it suited us. I have such fond memories of painting with her in the studio she built, the windows and skylights letting all that natural light in. It was perfect for art.”

               “Studio?” _She hadn’t mentioned that during the tour._

               She let out a frustrated sigh. “My father locked it up when she died. He moved my easel downstairs to my room, but painting in there, it just wasn’t the same. So I stopped.”

               “How long has it been?”

“Almost twenty years.”

He asked his next question as delicately as he could, “Do you think your mother would be happy knowing you stopped painting?”

Her voice was quiet, “No, she wouldn’t.”

She could tell he was thinking. “When we get back to the house, why don’t we open the studio?”

She seemed shocked. “I don’t even know where the key is.”

“I can pick a lock.”

She grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

They continued on through the rest of the gallery, Jorah always aware of their surroundings. And she was glad of that when his hand took hold of her elbow and turned her around.

He held the map in front of him, pretending to point something out. He kept his voice low, “Don’t look. There is a man behind me, four o’clock. He’s been following us for the last two galleries. There’s a stairwell just outside of this room. Once we get around the corner, we’re going to run for the door, get downstairs and outside as quickly as possible. Are you ready?”

She nodded, trying to keep her features blank in case the man realized they were on to him. They walked out of the room as if nothing was amiss, but the moment they cleared the strange man’s line of sight, they broke for the door. Jorah pulled it open and followed her down the stairs, but he was soon overtaking her since he took them two at a time. He opened the door on the bottom floor, letting her run through, the echoing sound of heavy booted footfalls rapidly descending from above. He took hold of her hand and they ran for the back exit and out, across the courtyard, to the car park. Jorah kept his eyes out for foreign registration plates and other would-be attackers, but he saw no one. He chanced a look over his shoulder, but the man from the gallery had seemingly vanished into thin air. Jorah found that odd, but didn’t think on it further. At least not right then. Once they were safely in the car, he sped from the lot. A few blocks later, he glanced at Daenerys. She seemed a bit rattled and out of breath, but appeared to be otherwise all right.

She met his eyes and Daenerys knew what he was silently asking, her nod reassuring him that she was in fact okay.

***

The next day, she led Jorah up the stairs and down to the end of the hallway. He squatted in front of the door handle and she watched him survey the lock. He stood and went back the way they came. He was gone for a few minutes before he returned with a small black zippered case. He dropped to one knee and opened the set, his mind working until he finally decided on two silver tools, one had a hook at the end and the other she had no idea how to describe it, kind of like a thick squiggly line.

She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, “Something tells me they didn’t teach you this at Sandhurst.”

“They did actually. But it was not in the official curriculum.” He paused his wiggling and maneuvering and tapped the side of his nose, “More like extra-curricular activity.”

She hummed. “What did you learn there? Officially, I mean.”

“Military history, international relations, battle strategy, weapons training, infiltration techniques, enemy behaviour and psychology, negotiation procedures, foreign languages.”

She perked up when he said languages. “I heard you conversing in one with Missandei. Which do you speak?”

He looked up at her. “French. I can speak and read Pashto and can muddle along in Dari, the two languages spoken most often in Afghanistan.”

“Ah, Je parle français aussi. Well, well aren’t you just a polyglot.”

His eyebrows shot up, his voice playfully teasing, “My my, someone’s erudite.”

She giggled. “I could say the same for you. That’s what a lot of reading will do. I have always wanted to learn another language though.”

“It’s never too late.” It appeared he did something right because she heard a click and he stood. He removed the tools and turned the knob, pushing the door open.

She stepped into the room, the smell of old paint and stale air filled her nostrils. She walked over to the windows and pulled back the drapes, setting a cloud of dust free, the room now awash in bright sunlight. She undid the latch on the windows and pushed them open to air out the room. White drop cloths covered the sparse furniture and blank canvases sat propped against the wall. She stood in the center of the room and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Happy memories of her and her mother flooded her mind and she felt herself getting choked up at them. She mentally shook her head and opened her eyes to find Jorah standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, a look of quiet contemplation on his face. “Being here again is probably bittersweet, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she played with the end of her braid, “I have great memories of painting here. But now they are tinged with sadness because I’ll never be able to do it with her again.”

“Your mother is still with you.” He tapped his chest over his heart.

In a way, he was right. Her memory and spirit were always there; someone had reminded her once when she was much younger that she had her mother’s gentle heart.

“Thank you for doing this,” she held out her arms to gesture around the room, “It really means a lot to me.”

“No problem. It was nothing.”

“No, Jorah,” intense violet met gentle blue, “It’s _everything_.”   

***

               One afternoon, Jorah sat by the window reading the paper. He had seen Daenerys only twice so far, once during breakfast, dressed in what appeared to be painting clothes and then again about 2 hours later, covered in various shades of paint. She walked over to him and held out her hand, “Can I show you something?”

               She seemed so excited, so he stood and took her hand and she practically dragged him up the curved metal and glass staircase and along the hallway into the room at the end. She walked ahead of him and turned, spreading her arms in a ta-da gesture. He was stunned by what he saw; only a week ago, he had picked the lock on the door, opening the long-closed room. What had been for the most part barren had been transformed in such a short time. Bright colors strewn across multiple canvases; the tile floor covered in white painter’s cloth. But it was the work in progress in front of him that really made him stare. It was beautiful in its chaos, greens and blues criss-crossing on a canvas half the size of the wall behind it.

               “It’s beautiful. Replicating Jackson Pollack, I see?”

               She smirked at him, but he could tell she understood he was complimenting her. “Do you paint or draw?”

               “Gods, no. The only thing you’ll get out of me is a poorly drawn stick figure.”

               She gazed at him hopefully before she turned and pointed to something on the opposite wall, “Do you want to try something with me?”

               He seemed confused, pointing at his chest, “You want me to paint with you? I don’t know…”

               She shook her head, “Just trust me, ok? It’ll be fun, I promise.”

               He sighed, knowing that she wouldn’t take no for an answer. _Besides_ , he thought, _this might be fun after all_. “All right.”

               She clapped her hands once. “Great! Roll up your sleeves, your pant legs, and take off your shoes. I don’t want you to ruin your clothes.” She handed him a white smock similar to the one she wore. “Put this on too.”

               He felt a bit silly doing this, but he saw how happy she was and he felt guilty at thinking about it that way. Besides, the way she grinned at him when he was all dressed and ready made his heart feel light and he realized it was definitely worth it.

               She motioned for him to follow her over to the wall and she handed him a small plastic cup half full of thick paint, a striking shade of blue that reminded him of his eyes. She picked up one herself; it contained a color similar to her own irises. She turned to him, her lip between her teeth, “Ready?”

               “For what exactly?”

               “Just throw it at the canvas. Any way you feel is right.”

               The silliness came back briefly before he tossed the paint in a sweeping arc, the splatter of it oddly satisfying. A strange feeling came over him, simultaneously calm and exhilarating. He stared at what he had done, what he had just _created_. It looked like an ocean wave or splotch of blue in a cloudy sky. He found he couldn’t help the corner of his mouth curling upward. She handed him another cup with a different shade of blue, nodding toward the wall that he should do it again. He did in a different direction with lighter force this time, the shape wholly unlike the other. He was starting to understand why she loved to paint, with each swath of pigment he put up there; he felt something chip away inside him. She started to throw her own paint; the combined wet sounds of splashing filled the room. He wasn’t sure how many cups they went through together, but as they stepped back and stared at their work, she couldn’t help but grin, Jorah’s eyes twinkling with happiness at her joy.

               She took hold of his hand again, only this time she walked to the canvas. She laced her fingers with his and guided them to it. He watched her face, her brow scrunched in concentration; the coolness of the paint doing little to lessen the heat that radiated from their shared touch as she pressed his hand against to the surface and started a swirling, meandering path. The startling difference in the size of their palms and fingers made him smile softly, the sensation of their skin touching in such an innocent way made his heart beat as though it was nearly an intimate embrace. Something about this quiet moment with her brought a stillness to his soul and he understood completely how art could be a form of therapy.

               All too soon, it was over, the spell broken when she lowered his hand and let go. She tilted her head to the side, staring at their creation, “What would you call it?”

               Jorah felt put on the spot, out of his comfort zone, “I’m not creative like that.”

               “I think we made something amazing here.”

               He stared at her profile as the realization sunk in: she had said _we_ , not _I_. They had created something together and this was truly a day of firsts for him. But he found he didn’t mind at all that she was expanding his horizons. A sensation filled his chest that he had not felt in a very long time, if ever: complete peace with someone. An easy give and take that he hadn’t realized was missing in his life until now. With her. He was shocked by his train of thought; he had not known her all that long and it was threatening to break all of his carefully held rules. _Bloody hells_ , he thought, _if it doesn’t feel right_.

               “Amalgamation.”

               He snapped back to reality at her voice. “What?”

               “It’s what I’m going to call it.”

               He stared at it, “The process of combining or uniting.” He looked back at her, “I think that’s perfect.”

               Her dimples showed, “I totally agree.”

               Then he saw it, the spot of purple paint on her cheek. “You’ve got some paint on you.” He reached up with his clean left hand and swiped his thumb over it, but it had the unintended effect of smearing it. He chuckled, “Sorry about that.”

               Their gazes held and he heard her quickly drawn breath, her lips parting. Her skin was soft and warm under the tips of his fingers, rendering him immobile in the crackling energy around them. He felt her start to lean into his touch before she realized what she was doing. She took a step back, suddenly flustered and unable to meet his eyes. “Umm, when it’s dry, can we take this to have it framed? I’d like to put it up in the sitting room. There’s good light in there for it.”

               She was rambling, something he had learned she did when she felt vulnerable or caught unawares. He knew it was up to him to fix this; after all, he had caused it. “Of course, we can. Just let me know when it’s ready.”

               She nodded, worrying the corner of her lip between her teeth.

               “I’ll leave you to it.” He wiped most of the paint from his hands with one of her rags, took off his smock, gathered his shoes, then walked to the door. He paused, “Thank you. For this,” he pointed to the painting, “I had a good time.”

               That seemed to sufficiently change the subject because she smiled, “No problem. I had fun too.”

               “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

               He waited a moment longer, but he wasn’t sure why, before he continued on. Once downstairs, he washed his hands and dried them, all the while contemplating what had just transpired between them. Little did he know; she was upstairs doing the very same thing just then.


	6. The Stuff of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys awakens from a nightmare to find she isn't the only one who can't sleep. Their late night conversation reveals the source of her bad dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: a swear word, descriptions of mild violence

Daenerys sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, the darkness of her room closing in fast. She felt claustrophobic and anxious, her heart racing. _Damn nightmare!_ She threw back the covers and got up, needing to escape. She flung open the door to her room and padded down the short hallway to the kitchen. Moonlight spilled through the windows, offering her enough light to see where she was going. Making a beeline for the refrigerator, she opened the freezer and pulled out a container of chocolate ice cream, her favorite way of calming down after waking from her bad dream. She went to the utensil drawer next, retrieving a spoon. Movement out of the corner of her eye made her jump, nearly dropping the items in her hands.

               “Gods Jorah. I need get you a bell to wear or something,” she said breathlessly, setting the ice cream and spoon down on the island countertop.

               “I’m sorry, Daenerys.” He offered her a small smile, “Perhaps I should make some noise next time.”

               “No, it’s all right. I guess I’m just a little… _jumpy_ …that’s all,” she said, sitting down at the counter. She gestured for him to join her and he took the seat adjacent to her. “Ice cream?” She held the carton out to him, but he shook his head.

               “Was it your nightmare?”

               “How do you know about that,” she asked, curious because she had never mentioned it to him.

               “Our rooms share a wall.”

               “Oh, right,” she winced, “Sorry about waking you.”

“You didn’t.”

She glanced at the clock on the microwave, 1:45am. “When do you sleep? You get up at the crack of dawn.”

“I’ve learned to sleep… _efficiently_.”

She had no idea what he meant by that, but she figured it probably had something to do with his military experience and learning to catch a few winks whenever time permitted.

“What keeps you up at night?”

“Sleep has never come easy to me.”

“Mind won’t shut off?”

This conversation was headed in a direction that Jorah wasn’t prepared for. But he figured talking about something other than her nightmare might help dispel her lingering anxiety. “Something like that.”

“Is it the war?”

Daenerys knew from the file her father had left on his desk that Jorah had been a commander of a battalion. She started to put two and two together, “You must have seen some horrible things, lost men under your command.”

“Yes,” he said simply, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” she asserted.

“But it doesn’t make their passing any easier.”

“That’s true.” She thought for a moment, “Did your men trust you and your command expertise?”

“Without question.” He realized where she was trying to do and she was right. And so were the other people he had spoken to. Most of them had been part of the military and they understood the risks involved, knowing they could lose their lives in service to their country. The men who had died understood those risks too and still fought. Jorah stared at Daenerys, the young woman across from him watching him too, her eyes intent and unwavering. She understood loss, the passing of her mother, her brothers, their deaths could have been the result of Aerys’ ‘career choice’. And yet she stayed, knowing the risk, knowing she could be the next victim of her father’s decisions. Loyalty to family or love, he wondered at her motivation. The corner of his mouth quirked, “I see what you’re trying to do, and logically, it makes perfect sense.”

“It’s that nagging subconscious that gets in the way, huh?”

“Does it ever.”

Her smile warmed him; made him feel like his problems were far away and he treasured that about her. He figured she probably had precious little to smile about, given that she spent most of her time alone in this huge mansion. She had friends and the maid, but not much else and he felt for her.

“Your father never spends much time here, does he?”

She was surprised at his change of subject, but he probably didn’t want to dwell on painful past memories. She snorted, shaking her head, “No, never more than two or three days at a time.”

“And you’ve spent most of that time alone?”

“Well, I had my brother until a couple of years ago. Then there were my bodyguards and the maid of course.”

“ _Bodyguards?_ Your father didn’t mention them.”

“I’m not surprised,” she rolled her eyes, “The others weren’t just for me though, they served my brother too.”

“I see,” he said simply. A silence passed between them, Jorah noticing her mind wandering. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“What’s bothering you,” he answered sagely.

“You really don’t miss much, do you,” her eyes narrowed, but her tone teasing. “You don’t want to hear about this stuff.”

“Talking can be very helpful,” he offered, “Besides, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

She regarded him for a moment, she didn’t doubt that was true. Jorah didn’t really say much, but when he did, he made the words count. He preferred to listen, absorbing information through what others said and did, reading body language and inferring what he needed without asking questions. But it was more than that, Daenerys felt comfortable with him, something she had only experienced around her friends, though it wasn’t quite the same. “The nightmare doesn’t follow a pattern, it just happens. And it’s always exactly the same.” She ate a spoonful of ice cream and continued, “The first time it happened was…,” she looked away and closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling a long breath, “after an attempt was made on my life.”

“Your father never mentioned that to me.”

“I should have figured you’d say that.” She shook her head. “I’m sure my father didn’t tell you why he fired my last bodyguard either.”

“No.”

“Are you sure you really want to hear about all this?”

“Yes,” he answered, without hesitation.

“For a while after Viserys’ death, things were calm. My father wasn’t conducting much business, so I figured that’s why we had been left mostly alone. One afternoon, he brought home a new bodyguard and left for three months to the Middle East. It was about a week later when things started happening. Hang-up phone calls. Being tailed when we went out. Death threats in the mail. But it escalated fast, one night, they shot at our car as we were leaving a restaurant. My bodyguard thought it was best to lay low for a while, so he took me to the safehouse.” Ice cream long forgotten, Daenerys began to play with her nails, chipping at the already flawed polish. Clearly this wasn’t easy for her to talk about. “But he made a big mistake: he didn’t check to see if we were being followed. That night, I went to the bedroom to go to sleep. Just after I crawled into bed and turned off the light, a man rushed out of the closet and climbed on top of me, his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream.” Jorah noticed the tremor first in her hands, then in her voice as she continued her recounting, “He held a huge knife to my throat, told me he was gonna kill me for what my father had done. Just as the knife started to cut me, my bodyguard stormed in and pulled him off of me.”

“Did he take care of him?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, “Snapped his neck like a twig.”

 _Good_ , Jorah thought. “Then he saw to you?”

She nodded. “Rushed me to A&E. They said if he had cut me closer to my windpipe, I would have bled to death.”

While she was talking, she had unconsciously started rubbing the raised white scar on her neck. Now Jorah knew where it had come from, a strange sensation clutching at his chest. He felt tremendously protective of Daenerys, far more so than he had for any of his other clients. He wasn’t sure if that was due to the fact that she was the first woman he had ever been hired to watch over or a much less professional reason that he didn’t want to think about further. Whatever it was, he vowed to himself that he would never let something like that happen to her ever again. “What did your father say when he found out?”

“He was angry.”

“As he should be.”

She let out a short, rueful laugh. “Not for the reason you’re thinking.”

Jorah’s brow furrowed. “Someone tried to murder you, I should think he’d be furious.”

“He was only angry because the phone call had interrupted his ‘business’. Although I don’t think business is usually conducted on a yacht in the south of France with club music and laughter going on in the background,” she spat, her eyes shadowed with a mix of anger and disappointment.

Something wasn’t adding up here. “Your father hired me to be your bodyguard. Someone only does that if they care about the person.”

“My father doesn’t love me.”

She said it with such resignation, such certainty, that Jorah started to wonder about their father-daughter relationship. “Daenerys, I don’t—”

“You don’t think it’s possible,” she challenged.

“No, it’s just…hard to imagine.”

               “I wish it wasn’t, but it is. And I just have to accept it, live with it.”

               “You shouldn’t have to,” the words coming out before he could stop them. She eyed him curiously, studying the softness that had changed his features. He had never looked at her quite that way before. There was always a kindness in Jorah’s eyes, it lurked at the edge even in his quiet seriousness. It was what set him apart from what she saw in all the other men she had ever been around: her father’s indignant, almost manic wildness, Viserys’ smug cruelness, her former bodyguard’s cold detachment. But Jorah…he was a bit of a mystery. A soldier with a heart.

               “No, but I know what I am: an asset to be managed.” She sighed, “And if I can’t be, then I’m just a liability.”

               “Daenerys,” she stopped in mid-action, her hand holding the lid to the carton poised over the top, “Your father is wrong.”

               “About what?”

               “You.” She blinked at him, her hand dropping to the countertop. “You are not a liability. You are his daughter. And if he can’t see you as you are, then it is his loss.”

               Her eyes stung suddenly and she knew if she spoke now her voice would come out high given the tightness in her throat. She didn’t want him to hear how his words affected her, what a small, simple compliment had done. She glanced away quickly, breathing out a small laugh. “This conversation certainly took a turn. It started out about nightmares, then just became something else.”

               “We still can if you like.”

She replaced the lid and put the carton back in the freezer before rinsing off the spoon and putting it in the dishwasher. Her hands rested on the counter’s edge, “The nightmare is that assassin succeeding in his mission.” The bluish light from the microwave’s clock lit her face, making the lines of worry on her forehead appear deeper. She turned to him, “Do you have nightmares, Jorah?”

The question caught him off guard. “Sometimes.”

“What are they about?” She held up her hand when his mouth opened to answer, “Wait, I can probably guess. You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s all right. It’s only fair.” He exhaled hard, “War mostly.”

She gulped. If they were anything like the war films she had seen, they must be horrific. “How do deal with them?”

“Distract yourself during the day, fill your time with things you love and that occupy your mind so that you’re exhausted when you go to bed.”

“That’s why you work out every day and read a lot.” She smiled, “When you’re not watching over me, of course.”

He echoed her expression. “It keeps my thoughts in the present. It helps.”

Daenerys thought of all the things she loved: books, art, movies, music. Could she find the right combination that would help stave off her bad dreams or was there something she could add that she hadn’t thought of? “Maybe I could try working out more often.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he shrugged.

Perhaps it was time to take up yoga again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, I'll be introducing Daario *runs and hides*


	7. The New Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrival of Daario creates friction between Daenerys and Jorah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of caution...Daario is not portrayed positively in this story. I was never a fan of his character for many reasons, but mainly because I don't think he was a good influence on Daenerys. I also don't think he ever truly loved her. But that's just my opinion. If you saw the Daario/Daenerys tag and came here specifically for that, you will be disappointed. This is a Jorah/Daenerys story, they are my OTP. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: mild swearing, lots of angst

Jorah could hear voices in the foyer, one Daenerys’, the other a man’s. _She didn’t mention anything about a guest._ He was on his feet before they even rounded the corner into the kitchen, hand ready to draw in case of danger.

“Whoa mate, don’t shoot!” He held up his hands in mock surrender, a gesture that Jorah met with a glare. He was glad he had removed his jacket earlier, the momentary flash of fear in the younger man’s eyes when he noted the firearm at Jorah’s side was entirely worth the lapse in dress code.

“Now gentleman,” Daenerys said with a nervous laugh, “there’s no need for all that. Daario Naharis, this is Jorah, my bodyguard.”

Jorah offered a stiff nod, their hands clasping in greeting. “Nice strong grip you’ve got there.” He didn’t respond to the comment, his gaze swinging to Daenerys instead, her eyes darting between the two men. Then she was ushering Daario from the room, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Jorah. If looks could kill, he’d have been a dead man.

When she came back not five minutes later, her expression was still angry. “What was that?”

“What,” he asked, clearly confused.

“You’re kidding, right,” she huffed, hands on her hips, “The dagger eyes you had for Daario.”

“ _Dagger eyes_ ,” he repeated, crossing his arms. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“You know full well what I’m talking about!”

“If you mean an appraising stare, then yes, I was doing that.” His tone growing equally frustrated.

“What for?”

Jorah didn’t believe for a second that Daenerys didn’t understand his motivations. “I was trying to get a sense of who he was.”

               She swept past him with a scoff and dismissive wave of her hand, pulled open the fridge and took out two cans of soda. But when she turned around, Jorah was blocking her path like a human gate, arms outstretched, palms resting on the countertops at his sides. “Jorah, let me pass.”

               “No, not until we talk about _him_.”

               Daenerys rolled her eyes, her voice a low, perturbed hiss, “We can talk about _Daario_ later.”

               “Daenerys-”

But she was already ducking under his arm, throwing one last hard ‘later’ over her shoulder.

Jorah let out a heavy sigh, his hand running through his hair. _Later indeed_.

***

               Jorah stood just out of view of the canoodling couple, arms crossed, watching her like a hawk. He didn’t like Daario one bit and he barely knew him. There was _something_ about him that rubbed Jorah the wrong way. Perhaps it was the cocky attitude or the way he touched her as if they had been dating for a long time. She didn’t seem to mind that he was very physically affectionate, if her giggling and sparkling, laughing eyes were any indication. She was clearly enamored with Daario; her actions spoke quite loudly of that fact. But Jorah had a problem with it…for several reasons. One reason, in particular, was something he most definitely shouldn’t be feeling. _Jealousy_. Never in his life had Jorah felt like that before and he didn’t like it. His jaw clenched hard, the ache of it distracting him from the sensation welling in his chest. It ached there too. _No_ , Jorah concluded, _it hurts_. So much so that he nearly wanted to rub at his breastbone, but he thought better of it. Unable to stomach the scene before him any longer, he turned away, making a mental note to pound the living daylights out of the punching bag that evening. Hard, physical activity always had a way of centering his thoughts, helping him focus on what was truly important. But wasn’t Daenerys what was important? And in thinking of her, he was reminded of Daario, and like a vicious circle, he was right back where he started. _Get it together_ , he mused, running his hand through his hair.  

               Daario was disingenuous and didn’t like Jorah looking at him, probably because his gaze often unnerved people. Well, only the ones that had something to hide. Daario did, of that Jorah was certain. A quick Google search had proved informative; however, it wasn’t quite the information Jorah was looking for. As it turned out, the young man was an up and coming underwear model. The online blog comments referred to him as ‘panty droppin’ hot’, whatever in the Seven Hells that meant. He supposed Daario had the features that young women would find attractive: tall and built with perfectly styled hair. Said feature was something he couldn’t stop messing with and it was quickly getting on Jorah’s last nerve.

               In spite of everything, Jorah took solace in one thing: there was one person he could contact who would give him what he needed to know. And he planned on calling him later that day.

***

               Once Daario had finally left, Daenerys didn’t waste any time in giving Jorah a piece of her mind. “What were you thinking, Jorah,” she fumed, storming into the kitchen, “Embarrassing me like that.”

               “Embarrassing you?”

               “Yeah, I’ll be lucky if he wants to see me again.”

               “Daenerys, if he’s scared off by me, then that’s the least of your problems.”

               “What the Hells is that supposed to mean?!”

               “Who is he?” She looked at him as if he’d grown two heads. “Who.Is.He,” he asked slowly, then added, “Where is he from? How did you meet?”

               “What does it matter?”

               His eyebrows shot up, _what does it matter?_ He took a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, “It matters because it is my job to know these things. To protect you. And I can’t do that if you’re bringing a strange man into the house without telling me first.”

               “Strange man,” she repeated sarcastically, “He’s not a stranger.”

               “He is to me.” Jorah crossed his arms, “How did you meet him?”

               “I met him online.”

               “You met him through an online dating site?”

               “No,” she spat, seemingly insulted by his insinuation. “Missi sent me his Facebook profile because she thought we’d be a good fit. We’ve been chatting for a few weeks.”

               “Chatting,” he said flatly, then sighed. “Daenerys, did you consider for an instant how risky that could have been? He could have been anyone!”

               “Oh, come on, Jorah,” she scoffed, “Daario isn’t some secret assassin out to kill me.”

               His first reply was a hard, unblinking stare. “You are a part of your father’s world and _everyone_ is suspect until I find out otherwise.”

               “So Missi, Irri, and Doreah are then too, huh? Or have you vetted them already? Can they come back, Jorah?” He didn’t like her flippant tone or the fact that she wasn’t taking this situation seriously. But before he could formulate a pithy comeback, she was on the attack again. “You’re not upset with me because I didn’t tell you first…you’re mad because you’re jealous.”

               It was a low blow and they both knew it. He stared at her for a long while in withering silence, then said, in a calm voice, “I’m going to forget you said that.” He started to walk past her, but stopped, “You are my responsibility. You do not have the luxury of being stubborn about this. Think about what that means.”

               And then he was gone, leaving Daenerys to her thoughts.

***

               A little later on, while Daenerys was on the phone, Jorah slipped out the sliding glass door that led to the pool, easing it closed behind him. She was so engrossed in her conversation; it had likely allowed him to leave unnoticed. He dialed the number through the encrypted line and waited for it to connect. On the third ring, Barristan answered, “Jorah. What do you need?”

               “What makes you think I need something?”

               “That’s the only reason you’ve been contacting me of late,” Barristan deadpanned. “It’s not another encounter.”

               “No.”

               “What then?”

               Jorah glanced back into the house, checking to see if she was still distracted before moving further down, using a tall potted shrub as cover. “I need you to look up someone for me.”

               “Name?”

               Jorah paused. If he did this, there was no going back. He just hoped Daenerys never found out. “Daario Naharis.”

               “And he would be?”

               “Just someone I want you to look into.”

               “This isn’t for personal reasons, is it? He better not be Daenerys’ boyfriend or something like that.” When Jorah didn’t answer, Barristan filled the silence, “By the Seven, he is, isn’t he?”

               _Damn his perceptivity_. “Something bothers me about him.”

               “Are you sure it’s not the fact that he’s dating her?” There was dead air on the line before his friend said knowingly, “Hold up…you’re falling for her.”

               “No,” Jorah said, his response too quick, too defensive. He cleared his throat, “No, something in my gut says he’s hiding something.”

               That appeared to sober his friend. “You think he’s a mole?”

               “Gods no,” Jorah snorted derisively, “Daario’s about as sharp as a wet bag of hair. He’s an underwear model for heavens sake.”

               “I don’t want to know how you know that.” Barristan paused, “No, wait, maybe I do. Curiosity and all that.”

               “Google is a terrible thing.”

               “I see.” He sighed, “Well, I’ll check into him for you. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll be in touch.”

               “Thanks.”

               After exchanging goodbyes, he disconnected the line and pocketed the mobile on his way back to the door. Still deep in conversation, he could hear her laughter even through the glass. He pulled open it as quietly as possible and just far enough for him to fit through before closing it behind him. She laughed again, totally oblivious to his clandestine conversation.

***

               Later, just after midnight, Jorah’s mobile vibrated on his nightstand. It was likely Barristan, only he had the number after all. _Does this man ever sleep?_ He opened the door to his room and slipped down the hall silently, passing Daenerys’. No light could be seen coming from underneath, she was asleep. Crossing the foyer and into Aerys’ study, he closed over the door behind him, answering the call, “Barristan. What do you have for me?”

               “I don’t know how you do it. I’m glad I didn’t put money on you being wrong.” He chuckled, then began reciting, as if he was reading from a dossier, “Daario Naharis, age 29. Born in Southend-on-Sea. Family all deceased. Secondary school dropout.” He paused for dramatic effect, “Here’s where it gets good. Arrested two years ago for participation in an underground fight club called ‘The Pit’. He is alleged to have killed a man with a dagger; however, the investigation yielded only circumstantial evidence and no body was ever recovered, so no charges were filed. He served the minimum sentence for the illegal fighting charge, 6 months’ imprisonment. Outside of that, he has no ties to any criminal organizations, domestic or overseas terrorist groups.”

               This was the one time Jorah wasn’t all that thrilled about being right. “Well, at least that last bit is a positive.”

               “Are you going to tell her?”

               “No,” Jorah replied, “I’ll let her find out on her own.”

               “Good idea.”

               “Thanks.”

               “No problem.”

               Barristan ended the call, leaving Jorah standing staring out Aerys’ study window. For a brief instant, he had considered telling Daenerys, but that was when it was only a gut feeling. Now that it had been confirmed, he would certainly be keeping it to himself. It would strain their friendship; she would likely see it as an invasion of her privacy too. Besides, he really had no right checking up on the men she chose to date. Barristan’s comment earlier had hit a little too close to home. _You’re falling for her_. As much as his friend hated when he was right, Jorah hated that about him too. He was exceedingly observant; a trait that made him well-suited to becoming a spy after his military service. Becoming enamored with the woman he was supposed to be protecting went against everything he put into place when he became a bodyguard, the lines he had drawn with each successive job. And he had towed those lines without issue. Until now. But Daenerys was different, which in turn made this situation different too. Yet Jorah was a stubborn man and he knew well how to bury feelings and emotions in order to avoid dealing with them or if they became a hindrance to the execution of his job. Jorah figured that if he kept his feelings toward Daenerys tightly under wraps, he could maintain his objectivity, and thus, accomplish what needed to be done. _No emotional entanglements_. But no one said it was going to be easy, however much he wished it would be.

***

               A long, mostly sleepless night. Daenerys’ mind wouldn’t let her keep from going over and over their heated argument. Their first. She had been childish, and according to Jorah, stubborn to the possibility that Daario wasn’t on the up and up, so to speak. Jorah had been stubborn too, only his was born out of his necessity to keep her safe. Initially, she had seen it as a way for Jorah to cage her, to keep her from having a normal life. That really wasn’t the case though and she knew it deep down.

               She had accused Jorah of jealousy, that his frustrations at her actions were because she was with Daario. She wished she could rewind and take that back. She knew it wasn’t true, Jorah had no reason to be envious of her new boyfriend. Jorah saw her as a friend, and of course, a job. Nothing more. It was simply her way of ending the argument quickly, of lashing out, a defensive mechanism she often fell into when cornered or when she knew she was wrong, but didn’t want to admit it. She needed to work on that. But first, an apology was in order.

               Jorah usually spent part of his mornings working out, and based on the hard, staccato thumping sound coming from the room ahead of her, that’s exactly where he was. The door to the gym was only slightly ajar and that offered her some cover so she could peek in, staying quiet, waiting for a break in his workout. But her lips parted, her heart tripping over its rhythm for a second. She had never seen him dressed like that before: skin-tight tank top and tracksuit bottoms. All black. So used to his suit and tie, he looked different to her somehow. A bit younger. Taller. More imposing.

               Daenerys had seen her fair share of men’s bodies, most recently Daario’s. He was cut, muscles sculpted and maintained by hours spent lifting weights. She would be hard pressed to say it wasn’t attractive, most other women would too. Yet…there was something about Jorah’s lean musculature that had her body subconsciously responding to it in a way that made her insides feel warm. In a _really_ good way. His physique was formed by years of running, handling large caliber firearms, scrabbling through the bombed-out rubble of buildings, carrying wounded comrades to safety.

               A warrior’s body.

               And he had the scars to prove it, marring the otherwise smooth paleness of his arms and shoulders. It was the body of a man, one who would protect her from harm. Hold her when she was afraid. _Whoa, wait, where did that come from_ , she thought. Jorah was her bodyguard. Her friend. Period. A brush of an arm, a hand on her shoulder in comfort or reassurance, against her back for guidance, or holding her own to bring her away from danger, but nothing more. That was all the physical contact they had ever had. Still, her mind lingered on the idea, conjuring an image of her nestled in his strong arms. Protected. Safe.

               “Good morning, Daenerys.”

               She let out a squeak, nearly jumping out of her skin. Jorah stood there watching her, one hand wrapped around the chain holding the heavy bag, the other resting against it, halting its movement. He had barely broken a sweat, his chest rising and falling only slightly faster than usual. _Gods, he must be in great shape._ His gaze turned expectant, waiting for her to say whatever she had to.

               “Um…morning Jorah.” She tugged at her braid, playing with the end, “Can we talk?”

               “Of course.” He motioned to the plastic chairs by the mirrored wall.

               She sat down opposite him, giving him a moment to wrap a towel around his neck and take a drink of water before she began. “I-I wanted to say I’m sorry for yesterday. I said some really awful things. I accused you of being jealous. Which I know isn’t true,” she added quickly when she saw the look on Jorah’s face. She sighed, “I really like Daario and I don’t want to screw up a chance at a relationship before it’s even started.”

               Jorah’s heart sank unexpectedly at the news, now he knew she really actually liked the cocky young man. What she had accused him of was actually true, but it appeared she hadn’t interpreted his response as such. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling that way about their budding romance, and while Jorah knew she was too good for Daario, it didn’t really matter now. Jorah had to accept it and get used to the idea that he’d be seeing a lot more of Daario for the foreseeable future. _Besides,_ he thought, _if you truly care about someone’s happiness, you won’t feel jealous._

               “People say things in the heat of the moment they don’t mean. I called you stubborn and said you weren’t thinking clearly. I didn’t handle that situation very well either. I’m sorry too, Daenerys. I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

               “You’re kinda right though. I really wasn’t listening.”

               “Still, there are ways to tell someone _and_ be diplomatic about it.”

               “That’s true.” She gave him a small smile, “From now on if someone’s coming over, I’ll let you know in advance who they are.”

               “Thank you. And I won’t resort to labels to get my point across.”

               “Use your words,” she teased, making him chuckle. She stood, “I’m glad we worked this out. I don’t like the way it feels when we’re upset with each other.”

               “Neither do I.”


	8. Happy Birthday, Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Daenerys' birthday. For Jorah, however, it is anything but happy. That is until he gives her his gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as the last chapter was shorter than usual, here is a longer one to make up for it. It's almost 6k words (yay!). It has some angst but ends wonderful and sweet. You'll see ;)
> 
> Again, word of warning, Daario is not portrayed positively in this chapter. You have been warned...
> 
> Apparently, Modern Jorah is a Van Morrison fan :)
> 
> One last thing...this week was extremely hectic and I didn't get around to responding to comments like I usually do. Please know that I value each and every one of them as well as the time it takes to leave them. I have the most awesome readers ever :D
> 
> Chapter warnings: Angst, mild innuendo, a few swear words

After the incident at the art museum, Daenerys decided to steer clear of extremely crowded places for a while. If she wanted to see a film, Jorah took her to the cinema for the last showing of the evening, when there would be fewer people there. She stayed mostly local though if she did want to go somewhere in the middle of the day. There was a small village nearby, one where none of the townspeople knew who she was and likely didn’t care. She was able to disappear there with him, get lost in the small shops, browsing the wares.

He knew her birthday was fast approaching, as it was nearing the end of October and he had not yet purchased her a gift. He had mulled over what to get her, going back and forth with different ideas. Despite the fact that he knew her likes and dislikes well; he still wanted it to be perfect.  Notwithstanding the fact that he knew her friends were going to give her something nice, he knew that aside from them, he would be the only other one. On some level, he knew her father had probably given her gifts too, but they were likely ostentatious and nothing she actually wanted. Mere show pieces, an absent father’s way of buying affection. But more like obedience in his case. It wasn’t until one afternoon when they were browsing a used bookshop that Jorah found exactly what he had been searching for. It was perfect for her and he bought it on the spot, arranging for it to be delivered on her birthday.

***

               The days leading up to the party, Daenerys seemed very happy, smiling and immersing herself in all of the necessary planning. Jorah was involved too, of course, but in a different way. He was busy vetting food delivery people and the dance floor rental company she had chosen. They worked well as a team, Daenerys handling all of the bigger picture aspects, Jorah the grittier details.

               The weather the day of her birthday dawned cloudy and threatened rain, but it never actually did. The guests began to arrive in the early evening, the first amongst them Daenerys’ closest friends. Doreah always had a flirtatious smile for him and he always had a polite one to offer back. While it was flattering, he didn’t have the slightest interest in her. His attention belonged to someone else. Daenerys, grinning broadly and laughing with her friends, looked beautiful in a flowing red silk blouse and black jeans, her hair done in an elaborate braid. His opinion was objective of course, a man could admire the beauty of a woman without it meaning something more. But that line only worked if there were no feelings behind it. And Jorah was certainly developing some, try as he might not to.

               It was the arrival of a familiar face that had Jorah’s thoughts shifting in a new direction. Daario swaggered into the room like he owned the place and wrapped his arms around Daenerys from behind. He said something to her and she giggled before turning her head to kiss him, something Jorah couldn’t watch. He felt like he was intruding on a private moment, so he left to check the perimeter one more time.

               Later, Jorah sat at the island, enjoying a small plate of hor d'oeuvres and a glass of Coca-Cola. He rarely indulged in the beverage, but sometimes it paired well with certain foods.

               “Hey Jorah,” Daario said, sliding into the empty seat next to him and throwing his arm around his shoulders in greeting. “Good to see ya again, mate.”

               “Daario,” he replied dryly, side-eyeing the hand on his shoulder.

               “You should smile more, ya know. Glower less, it’ll do wonders for your mood.” He paused, looking out at the dance floor, Daenerys dancing with her friends to one of those choreographed party dances. “Man, if I was around her 24/7 like you are, I’d be grinning my arse off.” Jorah tried not to roll his eyes and Daario took his silence as an invitation to continue. He leaned in close, his voice low, “And we’d never leave her bedroom.”

               That was the last straw. Jorah turned out of his one-armed embrace, trying desperately to keep the contempt out of his eyes and voice, “You didn’t get much discipline as a child, did you?”

               “None,” Daario answered with a cocky smile.

               _Why am I not surprised?_ Jorah offered him a tight-lipped smile, “Excuse me, I need to check the security.”

               He left as quickly as he could without making it look obvious. It had taken every bit of restraint Jorah possessed not to punch him in the face. How dare he talk about Daenerys like that? She deserved to be treated with respect, not talked about in such a crude way. Daario had spent many afternoons over and he always left with the same somewhat smug expression on his face. Jorah didn’t even want to think about why. It was obvious now. Then again, if they were being intimate, they were exceedingly quiet about it. He had never heard anything coming from the TV room or her bedroom that sounded even vaguely sexual. Jorah shook his head, that was none of his business. It was Daenerys’ personal life and he left it at that, continuing on down to the security nerve center to check the screens.

               The party ended with the opening of gifts, the guests _ooo’ing_ and _ahh’ing_ over the intricate silver hair clips and expensive designer clothes. Jorah’s gift sat on the dresser in his room, waiting for a quiet moment when he could give it to her. Preferably alone. He wasn’t sure how her friends would view such a humble gift. He hadn’t spent much money on it, but that wasn’t the point. It was the meaning behind it, the fact that despite its monetary value, its intrinsic one was priceless because he _knew_ she would love it.

               But he would not have a chance to give it to her that evening. Once her guests had left, she and Daario went off to her room, whispering to one another and smiling. He knew what that meant and he gave them a wide berth, getting himself comfortable for a long night on the sitting room sofa.

***

               Jorah woke suddenly, the sound of footsteps in the hallway had him on his feet and moving silently toward the noise, firearm drawn and ready. Back to the wall, he noticed a shadow approaching slowly, reflected hazily in the marble floor. He gauged the height, then swung around the corner, gun raised and pointed perfectly right at…Daario’s shocked face.

               His hands shot up; black leather jacket clutched in one of them. He kept making noises, like he was trying to talk, but couldn’t. Jorah lowered his weapon with a heavy sigh, “Seven Hells, I could’ve shot you.”

               Daario slumped against the wall, his head resting back against it, trying to catch his breath. “Gods, mate, I’m glad you’ve got great reflexes. I thought I could sneak out without waking anyone. You’ve got like super hearing or something.”

               Jorah had so many things right on the tip of his tongue, but he kept them to himself. He engaged the safety before holstering his weapon, then crossed his arms. The two men stood in the semi-dark hallway, staring at one another. It was Daario who broke eye contact first, standing and clearing his throat, “I best be off. See ya, Jorah.”

               He swept past him, opened the front door and left. Jorah waited until he heard the roar of the motorbike disappear before he glanced at Daenerys’ room, his chest aching. He told himself it was the adrenaline, _nothing else_ , then went to lay down again. Sleep never came though, his mind torturing him with what had likely gone on in that room.

***

Daenerys woke and found herself alone. She wasn’t surprised, and quite frankly, she was relieved. She didn’t know if she could have faced Daario with a straight face or not. Last night had been decidedly underwhelming, to say the least. All over in less than twenty minutes. Certainly not what she had expected considering how much he seemed to want her. Daario talked a good game, but he had nothing to back it up. Everything they’d done together up until last night had been fun and all, but it was just his way of getting what he _really_ wanted. She lay there on her side for a while, staring at the haphazard mess of clothes on the floor. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her pillow at the sight. Then it hit her, Jorah slept in the room next door and had no doubt heard everything. Well, heard Daario’s everything. She had barely made a sound the night before, something that had puzzled her long after Daario had collapsed into a snoring heap beside her. _Wasn’t sex supposed to be gratifying for both parties?_ She groaned in mortification and was now unenthusiastic to face Jorah that morning. She didn’t want to have to see his eyes because somehow she was sure what she would find there. And that thought pained her.

               A chirp came from somewhere on the floor, her mobile alerting her to a message. She dreaded seeing who it was from, so she ignored it, pulling the blanket over her head and trying to go back to sleep. But that attempt was short-lived, her mobile chirping twice more in quick succession. Throwing back the covers with more force than was necessary, she got up and searched the messy floor for the source of the noise. Hidden under her blouse, the notification light blinked back at her. Thumbing the home button, relief and disappointment flooded her when she noticed it was Missandei. A small part of her had wished it had been Daario checking in on her or apologizing for sneaking out before she was awake. But, for the second time that early afternoon, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Clearly, he didn’t really care and that stung her. She felt used and she no longer had any doubts about the nature of their relationship.

               Missi: So how was last night? ;)   11:01am

               M: Wow, it must have been something if you’re still asleep   11:10am

               M: Daenerys?   11:11am

               D: Do you have time to come over later? I need to talk.  11:13am

               She didn’t have long to wait for a reply:

               M: Sure. How about 3? You ok?  11:14am

               D: Not really.  11:14am

               M: …That’s not good  :/   11:15am

               No, it wasn’t. Her stomach decided then to protest its lack of food, so she dressed in a pair of old sweatpants and a t-shirt before running a comb through her wild hair and gathering it into a quick braid. She surveyed her appearance in the mirror and that was when she saw it, a livid purple hickey just above her left collarbone. The sight of it disgusted her; she had never understood the appeal of love marks. She wasn’t his property, something he could brand to let other men know she was his. The disgust shifted to anger, how dare he do that? She tried to pull the collar of the shirt up higher, but it was useless. He had left it in a place that couldn’t be covered up, at least not without concealer and that make-up item was something she didn’t have. She considered letting her hair down, but decided against it. That would be too obvious and would only draw Jorah’s attention. He never missed a thing, her quiet yet hyper-aware guardian. She wondered briefly if he would ever do something like that to a woman and her mind gave her a very quick, emphatic answer: _Never_. She had tried not to think about Jorah in that way before, but her disappointment at Daario’s performance only got the wheels in her mind turning more than they had already started. And she found she didn’t want to stop them. Perhaps Doreah had been right all those months ago, Jorah would no doubt be a tender, attentive lover, seeing to her pleasure long before his own. He seemed like the kind of man who listened to and watched his lover’s reactions, adapting his attentions to their body’s needs. And she had a sneaking suspicion he was a cuddler too, wanting nothing more than to hold her after their hour-long love making was over. She laughed out loud at that, here she was fantasizing about a man she had sworn she wouldn’t think of in that way, not to mention only hours after she had been with someone else. It was like the plot of one of those late-night B-movie romances she sometimes watched: The conflicted woman whose heart had clearly made up its mind when it came to the two men in her life. But could she really do that? Get involved with Jorah? She shook her head hard and let out a long sigh. She needed to talk this out. Until then, she needed to eat.  

                Leaving the room, she checked the door next to hers. It was closed, but that didn’t mean he was in there. He often left it that way. Drawing a deep breath and rolling her shoulders in the likelihood that she would be facing him in mere moments, she padded to the kitchen and found him sitting at the island, coffee mug resting on the dark marble, paper open in front of him as usual. He glanced up at the sound of her arrival, but didn’t offer his customary small smile or _good morning Daenerys_. She instantly missed it, not to mention there was a decidedly edgy feeling in the air. He had already gone back to reading, but not before she had seen the flicker of _something_ in his eyes. _Was that pain?_

               “Morning Jorah,” she offered, trying to dispel some of the stiffness of the situation.

               He didn’t answer, but she stood there studying him. His eyes didn’t track over the page like he was reading and she could see the twitching muscles of his jaw, clenching and unclenching beneath his beard. He stood suddenly; the jarring sound of the chair’s legs scraping against tile making her start a little, then he grabbed his coffee cup and made to move past her. He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, but she saw it clear as day now. Hurt swam in his blinking eyes, and at first, she was puzzled as to why.

               “Do you have plans for today,” he asked rather curtly over his shoulder, pausing at the entryway of the kitchen for her answer. The hand at his side held such tension, the tendons clearly visible beneath his skin, his fingers subtly flexing, something she remembered seeing somewhere before.

               “Missi’s coming over later,” she replied quietly, “But otherwise no.”

               He hmm’ed in answer before leaving her standing there confused and wounded by his actions.

***

               Once the door was shut, Jorah leaned back against it, exhaling the breath he didn’t realizing he had been holding. _You’re a fucking git_ , he thought, instantly regretting the way he had treated Daenerys. He turned and reached for the door knob, but froze, his mind at war with his heart. He wanted to storm out there and spill his guts to her, lay everything on the line about how last night had ripped at his heart, having to watch her go back to her room with _that man_ draped over her. The thought of it now made him sick, the film replaying over and over in his brain, mocking him. But the rational part of him stilled his hand, made him think twice. It would do no good for him to tell her how he truly felt, how he was falling fast and hard for her. It would only strain things between them and that was not what she deserved. He moved to his bed and sat down heavily, placing his cup on the night stand. He needed a moment to cool off, to collect his thoughts into some semblance of order and coherency before he apologized. Otherwise he was liable to make a fool of himself. Daenerys twisted him up in knots in the best way possible and he hadn’t been prepared for that. The crick in his neck made a reappearance just then and he rolled it to ease the ache, waiting for the satisfying pop of relief. Sleeping on the couch had been a necessary evil, there was no way on the Gods green earth he was going to sleep next door to the woman he was falling in love with while another man made love to her. _If he even knew how to do that right_ , Jorah in serious doubt about the other man’s sexual prowess.

               Much to Daario’s chagrin, Jorah had encountered him attempting to sneak out before the sun had even risen. _What kind of man does that?_ Slinking away like a thief in the night, in possession of a precious treasure that he didn’t deserve. His thoughts only made him feel worse; he hated the jealousy he felt. It wasn’t like him to feel this way. At all.

***

               “So how was it last night?” Missandei sat across from Daenerys on her bed, the TV playing one of their favorite movies, but it had long since been ignored in favor of conversation. She brought a few pieces of popcorn up to her mouth and chewed them before she added, “Your text sounded disappointed.”

               Daenerys snorted, “Disappointment doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

               “That bad, huh?”

               “He barely took any time undressing me, then just buried his face in my neck and went at it.”

               Her friend’s eyebrows nearly met her hairline. “Wow. No foreplay?”

               “Not much. I think he thought the urgency of it all would really turn me on.” She made a face, “It felt so rushed. Like he didn’t even care about me.” The last part she added with a whisper. She sighed, the look in her eyes shifting, “There’s something else about Daario that bothers me. He’s keeping a secret and I need to know it is. At first, I thought he was just being mysterious and that was part of his allure. Now, my gut’s saying otherwise.”

               “Are you going to confront him about it?”

               “Yeah,” Daenerys answered, “next time I see him.”

               Missandei rested her hand on Daenerys’ knee, a sympathetic look in her eyes, “I’m so sorry. I thought he would be different. I regret sending you his profile.” She sat up straight, her eyes narrowing, “The next time I see him, I’m kicking him in the balls.”

               Daenerys had to laugh at that. “Get in line.”

               They collapsed in a fit of giggles; the merriment just what Daenerys needed to improve her mood. Missandei ended hers abruptly, “Gods, does Jorah know about last night?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She winced, “How did he take it?”

               “Badly by the looks of it.” She exhaled heavily, “He was acting so weird this afternoon. So abrupt and cold. Then he disappeared into his room. I haven’t seen him since.”

               “That’s not good.” Missandei ate some popcorn, “You know what this means though, right?”

               “What?”

               “It confirms Doreah’s theory,” she remarked triumphantly.

               “What _theory_?”

               “Jorah’s in love with you.” She shrugged a shoulder, “Or falling anyway.”

               Missandei’s foregone conclusion hit her like a ton of bricks. A large part of her thought her friend had gone mad. But a small part of her, the part she was desperately trying to ignore and push away was cheering in victory. “No way.”

Daenerys’ assertion sounded half-hearted to her own ears, not to mention Missandei’s. “Daenerys, I love you, but are you blind?”

“Come on, Missi. Jorah’s just looking out for me. He cares as a friend, that’s all. End of story.” But even she didn’t believe that. Not completely anyway. She worried at her bottom lip, _could her friend be right_? Jorah’s actions could be construed both ways really, but if she was really honest with herself, his reaction this morning was real hard evidence, solid proof of her pal’s theory and her lingering suspicions. The ones she tried so hard to disregard. She didn’t know what to do with this new found information, however. “You really think so?”

Missandei smiled. “I’ve seen the way Jorah looks at you. Mind, he does it when you’re not looking, but I’ve seen it. Several times. And so has Doreah. His eyes go all soft, as if he’s looking at the only thing in the world that matters to him. Then it’s like he catches himself, he kinda shakes his head and goes right back to bodyguard mode.”

She knew her friend wasn’t one to lie or make up stories to fit their friend’s view of things. She trusted her; if she said Jorah did that, then he did, she just wished she had seen it at least once for herself. Every woman wanted a man to look at them that way and Daenerys was no different. Men had looked at her, but she couldn’t really say it was the way Jorah apparently did. They often thought she was _hot_ or _sexy_ or something like that, never _beautiful_ or as if she was the only woman in the world. Daario certainly never did, he always eyed her lustfully.

She flopped back on the bed, “What am I going to do?”

               “That’s easy. Do what Doreah would do: go after him,” Missandei smirked, very sure of herself.

               Daenerys’ eyes snapped open. “What?” She sat bolt upright, “No. Impossible. I can’t do that.”

               “Why?”

               “We’ve gone over this,” she sighed in exasperation, “He’s my bodyguard. If we got involved and things went south, it will be super awkward between us. And I don’t want to have to deal with that.”

               “So the alternative is to just sit in your hesitation puddle?” She took her friend’s hand, “Sometimes you have to take risks. Life is full of them. But you can’t automatically think that things will turn out badly when you have no idea if they will or not.”

               Missandei was right, as usual. “I’ll think about it.”

               “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

               Right then, the dialogue of a familiar scene caught Daenerys’ attention and she turned to the TV just in time to see Mr. Darcy helping Elizabeth into a carriage, their ungloved hands touching. Then she saw it, the tension in Mr. Darcy’s hand, as if he was trying desperately not to clench it and show his true feelings. Jorah had done the very same thing that afternoon in the kitchen. The pieces fell into place: her friend’s comments, Jorah’s reaction, and her nagging feelings. She searched for the remote, ignoring the confusion on her friend’s face, and once she found it, she rewound the scene. “That’s it.”

               “What’s _it_?”

               Daenerys hit ‘play’ once it had gone back far enough. They watched together then she turned to her, “ _That_ ,” she gestured at the TV, Mr. Darcy’s hand frozen on the screen, “That’s what Jorah did today.”

               A slow smile broke across Missandei’s face, “Jorah’s got it bad.”

               Daenerys had been afraid she would say that.

***

               By the time Missandei had left, it was dinner time. Jorah still hadn’t emerged from his room or maybe he had while she and her friend had talked. She wasn’t sure, she hadn’t heard any sounds in the hallway, but then again, Jorah was silent when he wanted to be. She ate alone in the kitchen, leftovers from her birthday party. After she had cleaned up and put the dishes in the dishwasher, she cleared out the refrigerator of expired food and rearranged the spice cabinet alphabetically. She was aware of what she was doing, putting off the inevitable conversation. She wasn’t sure if she could face him yet. He likely knew what had happened last night and the events of this afternoon were still fresh in her mind. This wasn’t like her though; she had never been one to back down from something that made her anxious. So she steeled herself and made the seemingly long trek to his room. Muffled soft music greeted her, she recognized the tune, and once the chorus started, she knew the song. She smiled, _I had no idea he was a Van Morrison fan_.

               She knocked once and waited, her stomach twisting in nervous knots. The music’s volume decreased further, then the door opened, a flash of surprise crossed his face an instant before he schooled his features. He didn’t say anything and neither did she, the melodious strains of the guitar and vocals breaking the heavy silence between them. At long last, he stepped aside to let her in. A book lay open on the bed; the covers pulled up but rumpled as if he had just been lying there reading. Soft light from the bedside lamp lit the room and she surveyed his domain. She had never been in here before, but it was just as she pictured it would be. Books piled high on the floor by the bed, hardcovers with no dust jackets in a teetering tower. No clothes littered the floor, his suit hanging neatly from a hanger on the back of the bathroom door, his two pairs of dressy boots in a tidy row by the chest of drawers. He had changed into more comfortable clothes, dark wash jeans and a faded blue Henley, sleeves pulled up to his elbows. His feet were bare, something that for whatever reason made her giggle inwardly. They were manly, and for some odd reason, she found them attractive. He certainly didn’t have ‘hobbit feet’, Missandei’s code for callused, hairy man feet. She noticed how his shirt clung to his leanly muscled chest, the three buttons at the collar left undone, offering her a fleeting glimpse of his chest hair. The color really brought out his eyes, ones that were watching her curiously.

               She cleared her throat, her fingers beginning to toy with her braid out of nervous habit. “Can we talk?”

               He took a deep breath, swallowed, then nodded, gesturing to the bed, the only place in the room to sit down. He waited until she took her seat, then sat down across from her, face to face, his eyes never leaving hers. She had the sudden, strange urge to run, her emotions causing her thoughts to jumble into a tangled mess in her mind. _This was a stupid idea_ , she thought, and was just about to get up and leave when he blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

               Her eyes snapped to his, where she could see that his apology was truly genuine. There was a strained softness to his gaze, his lips faintly parted as if he wanted to say something more, but they closed, waiting, wanting to gauge her reaction.

               _You should be_. But her thought had been out loud and he blinked, wounded, as if her words had slapped him, but he recovered quickly. She tried to fix it, “I didn’t—”

               “No, Daenerys,” he interrupted, “I deserved that. I acted like a shit this afternoon and you did nothing to deserve that.”

               “Still…,” she started, but wasn’t sure how to finish it. “ _Why_ did you act like that?”

               It was out before she could stop herself and her eyes slipped shut in regret. This ship was going down fast and she wasn’t sure how to right it. She chanced a peek at his face and wasn’t surprised to see him wavering, his eyes darting down, then past her as if searching for the exact words, searching for a reason that was still the truth, but not the complete story. Jorah would never outright lie to her. She had an idea that it might have been fueled by jealousy, seeing as Missandei thought that Jorah was in love, or in the process of falling for her. But she knew him well enough that he wouldn’t tell her that, even if it was true.

               When he did finally answer, it threw her for a loop. “You deserve better than him.”

               _Interesting_. An answer that could be taken two ways, as a friend might warn another off a man who was bad news or the way a man in love might try to make her see that _he_ was the one for her. It warmed her heart either way she took it; he really was looking out for her, not to mention that his assumptions about Daario were spot on. It just took her too long to realize that she _did_ deserve better. He must have noticed the look on her face because he added, “You belong with someone who respects you.”

               _How could he have guessed that?_ “What do you mean?”

               He regretted his words the moment they came out, her defensive statement affecting her demeanor too, her arms coming up to cross over her chest. So he tried a different tact, “What did he give you for your birthday?”

               She shivered at the thought of that gift, currently sitting in its box on the floor of her room. It really belonged in the rubbish bin because that’s what it was. “An iguana skin wallet.”

               He winced. _Bad choice, Daario_. “Does he know how you feel about lizards?”

               “He knows I love them. He said he thought I’d like having one close by.”

               _What a fucking idiot_. “Is that showing you respect?”

               “No,” she responded quietly. Now she had two people in her life that were always right. _Oh goody_.

               “I just want to see you happy, Daenerys. And something tells me you’re not.”

               _Oh gods, did he hear them last night?_ “About last night—”

               “That’s none of my business.” He held up his hand, swallowing roughly, “I am not here to judge. You are more than capable of making your own decisions. I’m just offering an observation. Take it for what you will.”

               But the look on his face said otherwise. Not the judging part, he had never done that in all of the time he had known her. No, it was that he clearly wanted to say more, but held back. And that was definitely like him. He kept his cards close to his chest, but every so often, a crack would appear in his carefully constructed façade and she would see the real Jorah. A man who felt emotions so strongly, he needed an iron clad will to keep them under control. And he had that in spades.

               “So we’re ok,” she asked tentatively, her gaze hopeful.

               He gave her that small smile she had absolutely been missing, “Of course.”

               She couldn’t help the dimple that appeared. “Good to know.”

               “Oh,” he exclaimed softly, standing and walking to his chest of drawers. He opened the top one and pulled out a large, beautifully wrapped gift. He sat down again, setting the heavy parcel between them, “This is for you. Happy birthday, Daenerys.”

               She observed him with soft eyes, “You didn’t have to do that, Jorah.”

“Yes, I did.”

She almost didn’t want to ruin the wrapping; the shiny, iridescent paper was a stunning shade of deep red, really almost cranberry. She undid the white ribbon and turned it over, finding the taped seam and slipping her finger underneath, easing the halves apart. She gasped and met his apprehensive eyes; it was a large hardcover book of art by her favorite painter, J.W. Waterhouse. “How did you know?” Her voice was nearly a whisper as she ran her hand over the cover.

“Do you remember when we went to the art museum and you stopped in front of _The Lady of Shallott_? You said that you loved his work, that you could stare at his paintings for hours.”

“You remember that?” 

“Of course. I have a very good memory.” _Especially when it comes to you_.

“I love this. Thank you.”

And without hesitation or thought, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, the whiskers there tickling her lips in a pleasant way, a warmth bubbling in her chest like fizzy champagne, the feeling just as intoxicating. She sat back abruptly, her owlish eyes blinking rapidly at him. He appeared just as shocked, the rise and fall of his chest just a tick above his normal respiration. One of those cracks appeared; his eyes moving over her face before hesitating for a second too long on her parted lips. And then it was gone, covered over when his glance flicked away. Almost as if it had never happened. _Almost_.

“You’re welcome,” he offered almost automatically, still slightly taken aback by what she had just done.

She flashed him a quick smile before collecting her gift and standing. She paused, wanting to say something, but reconsidered and left with a murmured ‘night Jorah’.

He barely had a chance to mumble one back before she was gone, her silver braid swinging behind her. He sat there for a long while, totally oblivious to the music that had been playing during their exchange. Standing, he moved in a daze to the iPod speaker dock and turned it off. But not before he noticed the track that was nearly over: _If I Ever Needed Someone_. And, by the gods, did he ever need her.

***

               Back in the shelter of her room, the door closed, she slid down it until she was sitting on the floor, the heavy book clutched tightly in her arms. _What had she been thinking kissing him like that_? She felt like she might hyperventilate, her heart racing in her chest. That was it; she had finally lost her mind. Or perhaps she had finally let go and given in to those feelings she had tried to bury. She should have known better, they wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Their little exchange had managed to confirm one thing for her: Daario had been doing it all wrong. Kissing Jorah’s cheek had done more for her than any of Daario’s forceful kisses. The blooming warmth in her chest had not dissipated one bit, in fact, it had spread through her whole body and her hand came to rub idly at the origin of the sensation just under her breastbone. Jorah had to know she had seen him glance at her lips. Now she imagined him taking the next step, cupping her face and kissing her. The thought alone sent a thrill through her so strong she gasped softly.

She shook her head and stood, not wanting to think about what everything meant. She instead focused on the slowly fading sensation in her chest and got ready for bed, setting Jorah’s gift on her nightstand. But before she slipped under the covers, she took Daario’s present and chucked into the bin without another look. She had made up her mind about him, about them, and decided she would tell him when they next met. It was as if a weight had been lifted and she felt lighter, _happier_ than she had in weeks. And when she slept that night, her nightmare did not return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the note about the graphic violence? The next chapter will see the rating change to Mature for that very reason.


	9. Not Just Watching Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah attend a gallery exhibition, but someone is waiting in the wings to ruin their evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned at the end of the last chapter that the rating would be changing due to some graphic violence. It's nothing we haven't already seen on GoT, but I wanted to be on the safe side. Please heed the chapter warnings. If blood and gore bothers you, you can skip over the scene.
> 
> One last thing...a big 'thank you' to my readers! Your comments and kudos make my day! 
> 
> Chapter warnings: violence, blood and gore, angst, swearing

What happened the night after Daenerys’ birthday had occupied Jorah’s thoughts for at least a week after. And now, two weeks later, he still thought about it from time to time. She’d kissed him. It had lasted only a moment, but it had happened and that was the main thing he kept mulling over. He’d seen it coming, how time seemed to slow, how she had leaned toward him, her soft lips meeting his cheek without hesitation, without thought to the consequences. But that didn’t mean he was prepared for it. It had been a purely innocent gesture of gratitude, but when she had sat back suddenly, there was a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling in her wide violet eyes. Yet regret was not amongst them. The days immediately after had been interesting to say the least. Sure, they had fallen back into their usual routine, eating dinner together and watching TV after. They talked and laughed; things were easy between them. But it was in the quiet moments in between, the moments when they thought the other wasn’t paying attention, that he would sometimes notice her eyes flicking to his lips, her own softly parted. Or she would see his gaze lingering on her profile in a way that wasn’t entirely in friendship. But like a passing summer shower, it was gone before they could truly think about what it meant.

               What he had told her was the truth, he did want her to be happy. And if that meant that she and Daario remained an item, then so be it. As much as it hurt him, he would stand aside and let their relationship flourish. _If_ that was what she wanted. But that didn’t appear to be the case. Daario had only been by the house a few times since her birthday, and when he was, there was a decidedly awkward feel to his time spent there. He seemed as interested in her as ever, but it was Daenerys that seemed to be holding something back. At first, he had thought they had a row. But when it didn’t go away, Jorah wondered if Daario had done something she didn’t like or he had upset her. If either of those was the case, Jorah would have no problem _dealing_ with Daario. Being tossed out on his arse might do him some good. Daario seemed like the kind of man who hadn’t been told ‘no’ very often.

               The jealousy was still there, but it wasn’t as acute as it had been. Acceptance of situations out of his control went a long way to keeping a difficult emotion under wraps. But so did punching the Seven Hells out of the heavy bag. It had become a daily necessity. It was good for his cardiovascular health, not to mention, an excellent way of keeping his muscles toned. He had noticed they’d become more defined since he’d arrived at Daenerys’ home. He was still lean, it seemed no matter what he did, he could never ‘bulk up’, which was fine by him. It kept him quick on his feet and he needed that. The jealousy still made Jorah hate himself, but more than that, it made him sad. He knew he had no right to be envious; she was his friend and charge, nothing more. But his heart didn’t seem to be listening to his rational mind. Hope kindled there, refusing to be extinguished.

               Jorah sat at the kitchen island, sipping his coffee, only somewhat interested in the newspaper open in front of him. He heard the sound of pounding footfalls approaching and turned to the entrance in anticipation.

               Daenerys was greeted by an arched eyebrow when she rounded the corner. She stopped and grinned at him, “You always know when I’m coming, don’t you? Your ‘Jorah-sense’ must have been tingling.”

               He smiled at her nickname for his perceptiveness and the hope in his heart flamed brighter. “The sound of running feet is hard to miss.”

               She made a face at him and set her tablet on the countertop, “Can we go?”

               Confusion flitted across his face for a second before he followed her eyes and picked up the device. The screen showed an advertisement for an art exhibition at a small gallery downtown that night. He scrolled down, reading over the information. Jorah knew this particular location; he had been there once before. It had been quite some time ago, but he remembered the layout well enough. The building was one story and the floorplan was open, affording him an easy view of the entire room. Still, being in a public place with her meant that he had to exercise caution, knowing full well nowhere was entirely safe.

               He met her expectant gaze and said simply, “All right.”

               With a beaming smile and enthusiastic ‘thank you’, she took the tablet from him and left the way she came. Jorah watched her retreating form, her long braid swinging behind her. He smiled to himself and shook his head, turning back to his paper.

***

               The gallery was fairly crowded and he kept on alert, standing close by her side, his hand occasionally resting against the middle of her back. No one paid them any mind, to those in attendance they looked like just another couple enjoying the exhibition. They chatted about the art, some nature photography by an emerging artist. He incorporated people seamlessly into his shots, using make-up and artful direction to make them look like their surroundings. One piece in particular caught Daenerys’ eye, an image of a man holding a woman aloft, her skin painted to blend into the setting sun, her long pale blonde hair flowing down her back in a golden wave. Jorah watched her eyes as they followed the lines of the man’s nude body. He was leanly muscular and the way he gazed up at the woman in his arms expressed only profound love. She turned to Jorah, her head slightly tilted, an enigmatic expression on her face. The sound around him faded away and he saw something he couldn’t quite explain in her captivating amethyst irises. It was almost like she was equating him with the man in the picture, that she was imagining Jorah holding her the same way. But that couldn’t possibly be true, she was with Daario after all. The spell was broken when she looked back at the small placard by the image before flipping through her gallery guide to find it. Mumbling something to herself, she dogged-eared the page and started off to the next work.

               A waiter approached them, holding a tray of wine glasses. The short-statured man took the one furthest from him and handed it to Daenerys. Immediately alarm bells went off in Jorah’s head. _Waiters don’t do that at these functions_ , he thought. One look at his tanned complexion and shifty eyes had Jorah reaching for the glass poised just at her lips. He took it from her and brought it to his nose, a short sniff told him nothing. But the look in the waiter’s eyes told him everything. Realization filled them and he dropped the tray before making a beeline for the rear door.

               The glass fell from Jorah’s hand and he took off after him, weaving through the crowd in pursuit. He watched as people were roughly pushed out of the way in the man’s haste to escape. He shoved open the door and ran after him down the deserted alley, quickly gaining on the assassin. Reaching out, he grabbed the back of his clothing, dragging him to the ground. The man tried to get up, but Jorah stood over him, gripping the lapel of his stolen uniform jacket and smashing his fist into his face. He grunted in pain and Jorah snarled, “Who are you?” The man spat at him in response and Jorah gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to wipe it away. “Fine, we’ll do this your way.”

               He yanked the man from the ground and slammed him against the brick wall behind them. With his free hand, Jorah pushed up under the right side of the man’s ribcage, causing him to cry out in agony, then mumble something in a language Jorah recognized instantly.

               “Oh yes, you’re going to tell me or I’ll make you regret it.” The assassin froze, caught off guard by Jorah’s ability to understand and speak his dialect. “That’s right, I know what you said.” Jorah dug his fingers in harder and the man squirmed, begging him to stop in his mother tongue. “I’ll stop when you tell me who you are and who sent you.”

               The man smiled, his teeth stained red with blood, “I am little bird.”

               _Seven fucking Hells_ , Jorah thought. He had seen those words scrawled across the sides of buildings in downtown Kandahar all those years ago, the graffiti always accompanied by the outline of the tiny feathered creatures. He had only heard rumors of what they were capable of, but his stomach tightened nonetheless.

               Suddenly, the side of the man’s head exploded, viscera splattering Jorah’s face and the front of his suit. Stunned, Jorah let go of the now dead man, then turned to where the shot had come from to see a black sedan screeching away from the end of the alley. He ran the short distance to the entrance, despite the fact that he knew it was already too late, the taillights disappearing around a corner.

               Realizing he had left Daenerys unattended for far too long, he sprinted back toward the gallery and saw an unmistakable figure standing near where he had just been. He stopped beside her; Daenerys’ petrified stare fixed on the grisly scene in front of her. Taking a hold of her upper arm in his firm grip, he turned her away, her mouth opening and closing like a fish as she tried to speak, but couldn’t. He shook her gently and her eyes focused on him, growing wider as they moved over his face with a mix of horror and concern. “Oh my gods, Jorah, are you all right?”

               Daenerys’ hand reached out to touch his face, but Jorah drew his head back slightly. She let her arm drop to her side and he reached up to wipe his cheek, surveying the bodily fluids smeared there before meeting her worried eyes, “I’m fine.” Taking her hand, he started to walk away, but she was rooted on the spot. He looked back at her, urgency coloring his words, “Daenerys, we need to leave now!”

               She tore her eyes away from the corpse and tried to keep up with him as they ran to his car.

***

               On the drive home, Daenerys watched Jorah out of the corner of her eye. He was unusually quiet, even for him. His clenched hands twisted on the steering wheel, the creak of leather straining under the strength of his grip. Pulling his suit jacket tighter around her shoulders, she tried to ignore the nauseating scent of blood and human tissue wafting up from the fabric, instead focusing on the warmth the garment provided. The intermittent light from passing street lamps lit his profile and her head turned more toward him when she noticed a dried piece of what looked like brain matter clinging to his dark tie. Her stomach lurched; the sudden urge to vomit pulled her gaze away. When she closed her eyes, she could still see that man’s lifeless body like a flash afterimage, the side of his head blown open as if a bomb had detonated inside.

               Rain started to fall and he flipped on the wiper blades, the dull rhythmic thumping the only sound for several blocks.

               “Jorah,” she said cautiously.

               “Not now, Daenerys.”

               She had never heard him sound like that before, a hard irritation in his voice she found disconcerting. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

***

               Once they arrived home, he opened the door for her and let it slam behind him. He strode purposefully through the foyer and into the dining room, tossing his keys onto the table. Jorah glanced down at his tie and yanked the knot loose before dumping the soiled neckwear into the rubbish bin. He splashed water on his face from the faucet, watching the human detritus flow down the drain in red-tinged water. Drying his face, he threw the dish towel against the wall above the counter. Daenerys stood to the side watching the scene unfold, hesitant to say anything just yet. Pacing with one hand on his hip and the fingers of the other rubbing over his forehead, he stopped suddenly and rounded on her, “Do you have any idea the danger you just put yourself in? There could have been a van waiting in that alleyway and they would have had you in the back of it before you even had a chance to scream for help. Driving you off to gods know where to...and I would have been powerless to stop them.”

               His words were as harsh as his voice, his shoulders rising and falling with each hurried breath. He stared at her, waiting for an explanation. She didn’t deserve his anger right now, not after what she had seen lying dead in that alley. It could just as easily been him and that made her heart feel like ice in her chest. “Don’t you dare yell at me! I came looking for you cause I thought something had happened to you. What was I supposed to do?! Stand around and wait for you to come back?!”

               “That’s exactly what you should have done! What the bloody hells were you thinking?!”

               She shoved him hard, sending him back a step, the pitch of her voice high and defensive, “I don’t know. Let me just consult my handbook for daughters with criminals for fathers…oh wait, I can’t. Because there isn’t one!” Her finger jabbed into the center of his chest, “That dead bloke in the alley could have been you and then where the fuck would I be?!”

               She stormed off to her room, leaving Jorah alone with his anger. Pulling a chair from the table, he sat down and rested his elbows on his knees, his head falling into his hands. The resounding slam of her door filled the empty house as regret seeped into him at his outburst. Losing his temper with her hadn’t solved anything, in fact, it had only succeeded in making a bad situation worse. Lingering adrenaline pumped through him, his heart rate still elevated as much from their argument as from the earlier events of the night. He hadn’t really been cross with her; it had been a defensive mechanism to hide the fact that the way he felt about her was entirely unprofessional. What had really fueled their interaction had been fear. His fear that he would be unable to protect her, his fear that he might lose her from his life, and he couldn’t bear the thought. But he would never tell her any of those things. As much as he tried to push it aside and keep it caged, feelings he knew he shouldn’t have for her had taken root in his heart, growing with each passing day. An apology was the only thing that was going to fix this fuck up, but he decided to wait, giving them both time and space to cool off. He hadn’t noticed the smell roiling off of him until now and he grimaced at the stench of it, heading off to his room for a much-needed shower.

***

               Daenerys slammed the door with a loud, frustrated growl. Her heart pounded in her ears, her breath coming in quick, short bursts. _How dare he raise his voice to me_ , she thought, pacing the length of her room twice to burn off the remaining adrenaline. Once it faded, she sat down heavily on her bed, realizing that she hadn’t even been angry with him. Not really anyway. She had reacted out of fear. Waiting for him to come back to the gallery, standing there alone amongst the other patrons with their puzzled looks and agitated murmuring, her worry had grown exponentially with each minute that had ticked by. When it had become unbearable, she had left to find…A shudder ran down her spine, her stomach somersaulting at the memory of the bloody gaping hole on the side of that man’s head. For a terrifying instant, she had thought it was Jorah, given the dim yellowish light in that alleyway. But then she’d heard running footfalls, a hand turning her away from the grisly sight. She’d been too freaked out in that moment to feel relieved. That blessed feeling had only hit her halfway through the drive home. Jorah was right, what she had done was reckless. Someone could have been waiting for her, to kidnap her, to…She shook her head, pushing those thoughts aside. It would do her no good to dwell on them.

               With her breathing back to normal, Daenerys now understood why Jorah had reacted the way he did. He had been afraid too. His motivations were likely as complex as her own. For her, the fear wasn’t just because she would be alone and vulnerable without his protection, but because she felt something for him and it wasn’t just friendship. She couldn’t even conceive of her life without him, he’d become such an integral part of it. Of course, she liked being around him, talking to him, spending time together. His presence made her feel happy and at peace. He understood her in a way no one else ever had and saw her for who she really was. But it went deeper than that. She was falling for him. Yet the realization didn’t shock her, it felt right. More right than anything she had ever felt with Daario. She had liked him, had thought it was love. But she had been wrong. When she had told him it was over between them, she had felt nothing. And that should have told her something very important. Letting out a long sigh, Daenerys rose to change into more comfortable clothes, the sound of the shower starting in the next room letting her know what Jorah was doing. They needed space to cool off, then he would likely come and apologize.

It was a short while later when Daenerys heard the soft knock at her door, then the quiet request for entrance. She answered back, “Come in.”

               Jorah stepped into the room, his usual dress shirt and slacks replaced with a navy Henley and jeans. With his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders slumped, he looked the picture of repentance. The fire was gone from his eyes too, the gentleness on full display now. He didn’t approach any further into her room, assessing her acceptance of his presence.

               “Daenerys, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

               She stared at him in silence for a long while before she patted the bed in front of her. He hesitated, almost as if he thought he shouldn’t be taking these types of liberties with her, even if she gave her permission. He walked over and sat down before drawing one bent leg up onto the bed in front of him as he turned to face her.

               “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled either and I definitely shouldn’t have shoved you.”

               “Now I might have deserved _that_.”

               They exchanged small smiles and a stillness came over them. Jorah reached across the divide and rested his open hand on the duvet between them. Her eyes dropped to the bed, it was an offer of contrition almost as much as it was an appeal for her to trust in him again. Without further hesitation, she slipped her hand in his. His fingers curled around her and the warmth he exuded made her feel safe.

               “That man was connected to the one outside Harrod’s and at the art museum.”

               It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway, “Yes.”

               She sighed. “And I have an uncomfortable feeling that won’t be the last attempt made on my life either.”

               Confirming for her what she already knew wouldn’t make matters any easier, so he went a different route, “I am a man of my word and I swear I will protect you.”

“I know you will. That’s the only thing I’m sure of in this whole messed up situation.”

               Their gazes held and a breath passed between them. She found reassurance in his steady gaze and it was trust he saw reflected back at him.

               With each successive incident, the risk on Daenerys’ life had increased. He didn’t dare envision what the next attempt would be like. Jorah had never been a worrier, instead focusing on what he could do proactively to combat a particular circumstance. Now, with the elusiveness of the future and the growing attraction to the woman sitting across from him, he felt the beginnings of apprehension edging into his thoughts. And he didn’t like it one bit.

               Jorah made to stand, but Daenerys’ grip on his hand tightened. “Jorah,” she said quietly. She couldn’t meet his eyes, then she shook her head, “Never mind, it’s silly.”

               “Daenerys,” he sat down again, a bit closer, “You can talk to me. You know that.”

               When she finally lifted her head, the corners of her eyes held the beginnings of tears. “For a second in that alley, I thought…” she drew a shaky breath, “I thought that man was you. I felt-- Every time I close my eyes, I-”

               “Daenerys,” he soothed, “I’m right here. I’m all right. You’re all right.”

The gravity of her words hit him: _I thought that man was you._ She had feared he was dead, if only for an instant. But it was the fact that her mind went there at all that rocked him to his core. Her heated reaction now made perfect sense, her fear at his loss was the mirror of his own at losing her. Jorah couldn’t think about what this revelation meant for her feelings toward him, the guilt he had felt for yelling at her returned, but now it was made even worse. He needed to make this better, but how? His other hand reached out and covered over the top of hers, cocooning it in warmth and comfort. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip, her brow tightening with worry. He had an idea. “Daenerys, I want you to close your eyes for me.

               “Jorah, I-,” her words taking on an apprehensive note.

               He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, “I know. Trust me, this will help.” She did as he asked. “I want you to think about the last time you were truly happy.” The remembrance came to her quickly, her heartrate beginning to slow down. “Once you have it, remember everything you felt in that moment, the sensations, the emotions. Focus on them, let them fill your mind.”

               She felt the muscles in her cheeks pulling her lips into a smile, her breathing measured and steady. Sitting that close to her, she registered Jorah’s scent: clean, not overwhelming, faintly woodsy. Her body relaxed at the soft, soothing tone of his deep voice. She remembered the joy of throwing paint on the canvas with Jorah, the sound of his husky chuckle filling her ears, the way his smile had lit up his eyes, the pleasantly rough pad of his thumb brushing so gently against her cheek that it had sent gooseflesh rising across her skin, the warmth that had radiated from his palm so close to her face, that zing of crackling electricity that had passed between them in that all too brief moment. A sense of tranquility came over her, his suggestion had worked beautifully. She opened her eyes slowly, his own gazing back at her with hesitant hopefulness.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

               “I read it somewhere,” he answered, shrugging.

               “It worked.” She offered him a half-smile, “Thank you, Jorah.”

               He echoed her expression, “You’re welcome.”

               Reluctantly, he let go of her hand, watching as she drew it back slowly, her other cradling it in her lap. It was a curious action until he realized she was trying to keep his warmth and the sensation of his touch for as long as possible. He would have held her hand all night if he knew it would make her feel better.

               “I think I’m gonna try and get some sleep.”

               He stood, “That’s a good idea. Good night, Daenerys.”

               “Night, Jorah.”

               He paused on the threshold of her room, though he didn’t know why. With a final glance and small smile, he left, closing the door behind him. Once he was in his own bedroom, he sat down on the bed, sleep the last thing on his mind. Only now did he register the relief he had felt when Daenerys didn’t ask him whether he had used his distraction technique on himself. He would have had to tell her the truth. And the truth was that _she_ was happy memory. Painting with her had made him feel happier than he had felt in longer than he could remember. Even thinking about it now made the corner of his lips quirk, made him feel calm and relaxed. And the hope in his heart wondered if _he_ was her happy memory too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me about Daenerys' age and Jorah's appearance in this story. It was her 25th birthday, and when I wrote this story, I envisioned S1 Jorah because I really love his longer ginger curls and more facial scruff in those episodes ;)


	10. The Only Thing That Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei's birthday party brings Jorah and Daenerys to a nightclub. But a fun time won't be had by everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A (belated) birthday gift to my readers: a chapter a day early! Something tells me you all will enjoy this one ;)
> 
> Chapter warnings: mild violence, swearing, hurt/comfort
> 
> Whatever it takes  
> 'Cause I love the adrenaline in my veins  
> I do whatever it takes  
> 'Cause I love how it feels when I break the chains  
> Whatever it takes  
> You take me to the top I'm ready for  
> Whatever it takes  
> 'Cause I love the adrenaline in my veins  
> I do what it takes
> 
> Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons

Jorah flopped onto his back, sleep eluding him yet again. He glanced at the clock, 1:30am, its large red numbers mocking him. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking over his time spent in Daenerys’ service.  It was already the beginning of November; he couldn’t believe that six months had passed since the day they’d first met. The way she was with him now was as if they had known each other for far longer than that. Long conversations going on into the night, and trying to keep her life as normal as possible, taking her to the movies and museums where they found that they shared a mutual love of art.  In a way, he hated to admit that someone he was paid to protect had become one of his closest friends.  But what bothered him even more than that was the fact that he was falling in love with her.  It went against every ethical rule he had put in place when he became a bodyguard. He had always told himself not to fall in love with a client, though he had never guarded a woman before, so there had never been a possibility. It made things messy and complicated, but try as he might, it seemed as though his heart had another agenda entirely. There were times when he wondered if she felt something in return; there were looks she gave him and things that she said in passing that made him question how she felt about him. He sighed, rolling to his other side, waiting for sleep that he hoped would come.

The morning dawned overcast and cool. Jorah managed to get a workout in, eat his breakfast, and read the newspaper all before Daenerys had her first cup of coffee. She was sitting in the kitchen when he came back from his shower.

“Good morning, Daenerys.” He glanced at his watch, “Or should I say good afternoon.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “ _Afternoon_ Jorah.”

He smiled to himself, pouring his own cup.

“Don’t forget it’s Missi’s birthday party tonight.”

“I haven’t.” He set down his mug and crossed his arms. “But I thought we agreed you weren’t going.”

“No, _you_ told me we weren’t going,” she countered, “ _I_ never agreed to that.”

“Daenerys, with everything that’s happened, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I know what you think,” she snapped back.

She was copping an attitude with him, something she did when he tried to get her to stop and think things through. Daenerys was impulsive, and while that trait could be a good thing in some situations, it certainly wasn’t here. “You are putting yourself at unnecessary risk. If Missandei is truly your friend, she will understand why you aren’t there.”

She stood, rounding the counter to stand in front of him. “I’m going whether you come with me or not.”

He looked down at her, violet eyes flashing, the hard set of her jaw letting him know she was ready for a fight. _This is such a bad idea_. He sighed in resignation, “Fine, but we arrive an hour early.”

“Fine. Nine o’clock then.”

He let out a long breath once she had left. Jorah ran his hand through his hair, never before had a client overruled his recommendation so easily. But Daenerys had managed it in less than five minutes. He felt like such a pushover. Or perhaps it was just that he hated fighting with her. Whatever the reason, they were going. So, he spent the rest of the afternoon researching the nightclub. He didn’t patronize such establishments, the music too loud to think, everyone overeager to get laid. Jorah hated nightclubs for another reason: they were a logistical nightmare for bodyguards. It would make protecting her more complicated, the space would be crowded and noisy. Going early to scout the location, learn the layout and plan exit strategies would be a smart, preemptive move. Little did he know now that it would prove to be the best decision he made.

***

He waited, pacing, in the foyer. She’d said she would be ready by nine and he glanced at his watch. She had two minutes and he shook his head, knowing he should have planned for more time. Taking a seat, he once again studied the painting on the wall. _‘My Three Dragons’ she’d called it_ , Daenerys had told him. But there were five Targaryens, three deceased, including Daenerys’ mother, so Jorah always wondered if the painting purposefully omitted one of the children or their father. With everything Jorah knew, he decided it was the latter. If Aerys was as cruel and unloving to Daenerys’ mother as he was to his daughter, then it was no doubt, she would have excluded him from the work. Going over the layout of the nightclub in his mind, he checked his firearm, ejecting the clip and examining the rounds before sliding it back into place with a satisfying click. The sound of heels approaching drew his attention to the hallway. He stood slowly at the sight of her, black jeans hugging her legs like a second skin, her low-cut sleeveless red sequined blouse showed off a strip of pale skin just above her waistband and gave him a tasteful glimpse of her cleavage. Half of her hair down around her shoulders in soft waves, the rest done in an ornate array of braids. In her left hand, a golden clutch, and slung over her forearm, a merlot-hued leather jacket. _She’s_ g _orgeous_ , he thought, the word coming to his mind before he could stop it. She came to a stop in front of him, her hand coming up to rest on his arm, “Jorah?”

He shook his head and met her eyes, “Sorry, right. All set?”

               Her nose crinkled with her smile as he holstered his weapon and opened the door for her, “Yeah, let’s go.”

               During the car ride, she couldn’t help but notice that despite his aversion to this whole idea, he sure dressed to impress. He wore his usual attire, but exchanged his white dress shirt for a black one and added a matching waistcoat. He cut a striking figure, and in her honest opinion, looked devastatingly handsome, like some dark, dashing hero from one of Doreah’s romance novels. But what had really struck her was how Jorah had looked at her as she crossed the foyer to him. His eyes swept over her body, starting at her feet and ending at her hair. It was nearly palpable in its intensity, her heart beating a bit faster. She nearly giggled now at the almost stunned look on his face, the way his gaze spoke volumes when his parted lips couldn’t form any words. Based on what she saw, she knew Jorah thought she was beautiful. It had been nothing like the way Daario looked at her, all lustfulness and sexual hunger. But Daenerys had also seen something flicker for a brief instant in Jorah’s striking blue irises: desire. It was gone so fast she wondered if she had been wishful thinking on her part or if she had merely imagined it.

               Daenerys assumed Jorah must have friends in some very high places because they were able to park in the alleyway behind the club and she knew not just anyone could do that. He scouted the place like he said he would, she could see his mind working behind his perceptive eyes. She then met up with Missandei and their friends in a special section cordoned off just for them. Jorah moved about the club throughout the party, ever mindful of the people around her, his eyes never straying from her for longer than a moment at a time. The second-floor balcony offered him a perfect view of the crowd and he leaned against the railing, taking in the throbbing mass of humanity below him. This was so out of his comfort zone, the music pounding like a bass drum in his head and chest. _How does anyone pick someone up in a place like this?_ While he may have hated most everything about it, he sure as Seven Hells didn’t hate the way Daenerys moved to the music, the graceful, sinuous sway of her hips and body, equal parts sensual and hypnotic. She was like a sparkling jewel, the strobe lights glinting and reflecting off the sequins with each roll and arch of her torso. _Stop looking at her like that_ , he mentally chided himself, pinching the bridge of his nose trying in vain to clear his mind.

“I love this song,” Doreah screamed in Daenerys’ ear, her hands coming to rest on her friend’s hips as they moved together.

Daenerys nodded, grinding to the pulsing beat. She knew the words, and while she liked this version okay, she preferred the non-club version more. Glancing up, she caught a glimpse of Jorah, leaning on the railing, his eyes fixed solely on her. Maybe it was a trick of the flashing lights, but she could have sworn she saw heat in them, the strength of his gaze not purely protective in nature. Her whole being flushed, reacting to him instinctively. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, her thoughts drifting into fantasy… _Jorah sought her out through the crowd, holding her captive in his smoldering gaze. She moved for him, to him, drawn in by his gravity. Now, her back against his front, his hands drifting down to her hips, her arm rising to allow her fingers to find their home in the curls at the back of his head. She let him lead, guiding their lower bodies in a slow, sensuous imitation of the oldest dance. Her head lolled back on his shoulder, giving herself over completely to the sensations coursing through her veins down to…_ until a pair of different hands, strong and large, grabbed her hips, pulling her back almost forcefully against a broad, muscled chest. A flash of panic chased away her pleasant daydream, a familiar scent invading her nostrils. Daario’s overwhelming cologne. He was saying something, his breath hot against her ear, but she couldn’t understand him. Not like she really wanted to; she’d broken up with him. Or tried to anyway, he didn’t really seem to take ‘no’ for an answer. She wasn’t interested in continuing a relationship that left her unhappy and unfulfilled.

Jorah’s hands clenched the railing in a white-knuckle grip, the sight of _that_ _man’s_ hands on Daenerys’ body made jealousy flare in his chest. Daario had no couth, then again, neither did any of the other men, they all seemed to be openly groping their dance partners. Yet it looked like she didn’t appreciate his attention, her movements growing awkward and stiff.  He was just about to go down there and intervene when she handled things far more politely than he would have, slipping out of Daario’s arms while throwing a polite smile over her shoulder before moving off to dance with Irri and Missandei’s group. From Jorah’s point of view, Daario only seemed disappointed for a moment before another woman caught his eye. He found that exceedingly odd. If they were a couple, why didn’t he follow Daenerys? More importantly, why did she leave in the first place?

He didn’t have long to think about it before he noticed a man: medium build, hair slicked back in a ponytail. He was so out of place amongst the crowd, alarm bells instantly going off in Jorah’s mind. His movements were purposeful, predatory, shouldering club-goers roughly out of the way on a beeline. Straight for Daenerys. Jorah began to move toward the stairs, eyes locked on the target. Similar movement coming from the bar drew his attention briefly, then a third, coming up the stairs toward him. There was no question now as to what was going on and Jorah sprang into action. Moving swiftly downstairs, he made it halfway before the would-be attacker reached into his jacket for something. Using the banister and wall as leverage, Jorah lifted himself and slammed his foot square in the man’s face, sending him tumbling backward. He vaulted over the railing and rolled through his landing, coming to his feet and shoving people aside on his way to Daenerys. The crowd made tracking her attacker difficult and he shouted for people to clear a path. Miraculously, there was a short break in the music and they heard him, an agitated murmur taking its place. Then he spotted her, just ahead, panicked eyes searching frantically for him, Missandei clasping her hand tightly. He could have sworn he heard her high-pitched cry of his name just as the music was starting up again, his pounding heart leaping into his throat as the ponytailed man grabbed her arm, spinning her around, knocking her friend to the floor. For a gut-wrenching instant, time seemed to stop, then start again in a rush. Daenerys struggled against the strong grip, managing a wild swing with her fist in defense, but missing, his other hand disappeared into his jacket pocket. Jorah didn’t see what it was, he was too busy wedging himself between them and landing a punishing right hook that knocked the assailant on his arse. Jorah reached for Daenerys’ hand, pulling her through the crowd to safety. She tried her best to keep up with him, but her high heels made that difficult and she tripped, falling, ripping her jeans and badly skinning her knees. He stopped, turned and lifted her into his arms bridal-style before continuing toward the exit, kicking open the door and rushing as quickly as he could to his car. Jorah reached into his pocket with one hand, pressing the start button on his key fob, the coupé’s lights coming on, the engine roaring to life. He set her down, pulled open her door, then rushed around to his own side, got in and drove off, cutting off cars, horns blaring.

She was still struggling with her seat belt as he shifted into fourth gear, running a red light in the process. His eyes darted up to the rearview mirror to check if they were being followed, and sure enough, a pair of headlights from a black sedan were gaining on them. Fast.

“You buckled in?”

“Yeah,” she answered shakily.

“Hold on.”

It was all the warning she got before he dropped it into second and turned the steering wheel hard, sending them into a 180° turn, the car following them unable to keep up with the quick evasive maneuver. Holding on for dear life to the handle above her door, she jerked back in her seat as Jorah took off in the opposite direction, driving on the wrong side of the road when the lane in front of them got too crowded, then weaving back, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car. He upshifted like a professional race car driver, so smooth she only released it was happening because the usual purr of the engine quieted considerably. _How many times had he done this before?_ She really didn’t care, just so long as it saved her life. He turned left, then right, and left again, ignoring all traffic laws and signs, constantly checking his rearview mirror for any sign of the now absent black sedan.  A multi-level car park just ahead seemed like a good place to hide and wait, his Audi screeching into the quick turn.

Jorah didn’t stop until he reached the second level, parking in an empty space at the far end, out of direct line of sight and closest to the stairwell in case a quick escape was in order. Keeping the car on, he looked over at her. She was shaking, her breathing fast and shallow, and she looked like she was about to cry. She let out a groan, her head dropping to her hands, “Jorah, I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”

“Take a slow, deep breath for me, Daenerys. In through your nose and out through your mouth. It’s the adrenaline, it will pass. I promise. Just keep taking slow, deep breaths, all right?”

She looked to him and reached out for his hand, holding it tight. He held her gaze, breathing with her. Hers slowly became more normal, but there was still fear in her eyes. He wanted to reach across and draw her into his arms, to soothe her, to make her feel safe, but the cramped space didn’t allow for it. Sitting with her in the silence, he would never admit it, but his heart was racing. His chest ached something fierce. He hid the tremor in his hand by gripping the steering wheel. It wasn’t just the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, it was the thought of that man putting his hand on her with the worst of intentions. He felt like his damned nickname right then, a big, protective bear on the defensive. The thought that she may have been hurt, or worse, rocked him to his core. It was in that moment that he realized his mind was now on the same page as his heart: he was completely and unequivocally in love with her and would do _anything_ to keep her safe.

They waited an hour before leaving, the drive home a long, meandering route. He got out first to come around and open the door for her, her body still trembling slightly as he carried her to the house, and using one hand to unlock the door, entered and locked it behind them. He went straight to the kitchen where he sat her in a chair by the dining table, her fingers reluctantly letting go of his suit jacket. He leaned down to look into her eyes, asking softly, “Where’s the first aid kit?”

“B-B-Bathroom.” Her voice shook on the simple response.

He left to retrieve it along with a small towel, which he wetted with warm water.  He returned and knelt at her feet, surveying the torn pantlegs and bloody scrapes underneath. “I’m going to cut your jeans.”

She swallowed and nodded once.

He took the scissors from the first aid kit and cut to just past her knees, pushing the fabric out of the way and taking off her heels before his hand cradled her calf and set her left foot on his thigh. He wiped away the blood, mindful not to rub too hard. Then he took an antiseptic wipe from the kit and cleaned the wound, bringing a sharp hiss from her lips at the stinging pain.

“Sorry about that.” He glanced up at her, her eyes watching his hands intently.

Daenerys shrugged half-heartedly, her voice soft, “’s okay.”

She watched him clean and bandage first one knee and then the other. His touch was gentle despite the large masculine hands he had; his fingers faintly rough against her skin. It might have been a pleasant distraction under other circumstances, but she suddenly felt jumpy and anxious again, her skin crawling where that man had grabbed her. She unconsciously rubbed at her arm, the phantom of his touch lingering there. Everything she had felt in that terrifying moment returned: the fear, the panic.

 Jorah saw her gaze grow distant; her hand moving automatically over her upper arm. His jaw clenched, _where that fucking bastard touched her_. She looked so small and fragile sitting there, he could see that her shaking had returned, wetness welling fast in her eyes, her bottom lip and chin starting to quiver. Without thought to the possible consequences, he reached for her and she fell into his arms, her tears falling hot against his skin as she buried her face in his neck. She clung to him fiercely, her whole body jerking with sobs. Jorah held her close, hoping that his embrace would give her the comfort she so desperately needed. His cheek came to rest softly against the side of her head, his hand soothing over her hair and down her back. “Shhh, you’re safe now, Daenerys.”

She gripped the lapels of his jacket and looked up at him. “He-he grabbed me, I--” Her voice broke on another sob and so did Jorah’s heart. Seeing her this way, words failed him, so he simply held her. And it appeared the quiet comfort was just what she needed.

***

She was close to his side for the rest of the evening, not letting him out of her sight. She wasn’t the least bit tired, still too on edge. But when he suggested she should at least lie down, she didn’t fight him, only asking that he stay with her. Jorah waited outside her room while she changed, mulling over the evening’s events. Things were escalating in a way that had him very concerned. Being watched, then followed, all leading to an attempted poisoning, and lastly, a failed kidnapping. They wouldn’t kill her in a crowded place, it would draw too much attention, leave too many witnesses. At least they had that going for them. Defending her from an assassination attempt at home would be far easier, he knew the layout of her house like the back of his hand. Yet that sliver of worry that had manifested itself after the art exhibition was now far larger. Jorah was not normally a worrier, but the uncertainty of everything, the variables he couldn’t account for, made him feel moderately off balance. And he didn’t like that at all.

The door opened, Daenerys stepping aside to let him into her space. He had caught fleeting glimpses of the interior during his time there and had been inside once before, but that time he hadn’t really thought to look around, more focused on apologizing for his behavior. Two large bookcases loaded with books, a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, a desk with a laptop, and a queen size bed made with black and dark red linens. The lamp on the bedside table had a sheer scarf draped over the shade, diffusing the light, and below it was the book he had given her for her birthday, the ribbon from the wrapping serving as a bookmark. His heart felt pleasantly odd in his chest, but the sensation was gone almost as quickly as it arrived. Her room was more subdued than the rest of the house, just as he thought it would be.

“You can lie here,” she gestured to the bed, “or you can have the chair.”

“Chair’s fine,” he answered, keeping his voice soft, taking a seat in the surprisingly comfy black leather recliner.

He could tell she was still traumatized, the way her eyes darted around the room, her trembling hands, the tension in her frame. Finally, she pulled back the covers and climbed in, turning on her side toward him before pulling them up to her chin. Jorah pulled the knot of his tie loose, then undid it completely, drawing it free of his collar. Rolling it into a neat circle, he stuffed it into his pocket. He’d long ago shed his waistcoat and jacket, but kept his holster and shoes on, wanting to be prepared for anything.

She was quiet for so long he wondered if she had gone to sleep, but when he glanced over, she was watching him with unblinking eyes, wetness heavy in the corners. “I suppose you’re going to say I told you so.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve every right to. I didn’t listen to you. That worked out well.”

Jorah let out a sigh. “Placing blame and pointing fingers isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

“No, because that won’t solve anything either.”

“Well, at least be mad at me.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why should I be? All that matters is that you’re safe.”

There was a softness in his eyes, a sincerity in his voice that leached some of the anxiety from her. He really did care that she was all right. Jorah had raised his voice to her once and she had right back. And he was right, the whole incident really had only made things worse between them.

“You’re extremely patient, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” he responded wryly.

Silence passed between them again before she whispered, “The man who grabbed me…he had a knife.”

“I know,” he said quietly, even though he hadn’t really seen what weapon the man had.

“He was going to…kill me, wasn’t he?” Her voice was starting to break, large heavy tears spilling over.

Seeing her like this hurt him. Earlier that night, holding her sobbing form, his chest ached for her. He wanted nothing more than to find the men who had threatened her and murder them without another thought. Jorah was not a man prone to lethal violence unless it was absolutely necessary. Killing people didn’t bring him pleasure as it did some he knew. But for her, and her safety, Jorah realized he wouldn’t hesitate. “I don’t think so.”

“What,” she blinked, more tears falling.

“This isn’t a good time to tal—”

“Tell me,” she ordered, sitting up, swiping at her teary eyes.

He sighed. _This isn’t a good idea, but she’s stubborn_. “I think they were attempting to kidnap you.”

Daenerys’ already pale skin blanched further. “K-kidnap me,” she repeated, tripping over the words. “Why?”

“To use you as leverage to get whatever it is they want or…” but he couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“Or what?” When he hesitated, she pressed him, “Or what, Jorah?”

“Something far worse.” He felt sick just thinking about it.

Apparently, she did too. Once his words sunk in and combined with everything else that had happened that night, her hand shot up to cover her mouth and she made a mad dash for the bathroom, the contents of her stomach making a reappearance. He was at her side without another thought, even as she frantically waved him off. He gently gathered her hair back from her face and crouched next to her, waiting for the worst to pass. _This is my fault._

With one last cough and disgusted spit, she rested her forehead on the toilet seat, her eyes closed, slowly catching her breath. Reaching up onto the counter, Jorah felt blindly for one of her many hair clips so he could secure her hair. Once that was done, he stood and filled a glass with a bit of water and wetted a face cloth. He sat down on the cool tile next to her, watching to see if there would be a repeat performance. When none arrived and she finally peered out at him from the side of her eyes, she mouthed ‘sorry’.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he reassured softly, handing her the face cloth. She took it with shaky fingers, wiping her forehead and mouth before tossing it in the direction of the hamper. “Swish and spit,” he instructed quietly, holding out the glass to her. She did as suggested, setting it on the floor when she was done. “I should be the one apologizing.”

He looked so guilty sitting there, his back against the under-sink cabinet, forearms resting on bent knees. “Why,” she asked, her voice a bit weak.

“I shouldn’t have told you those things. It wasn’t the right time.”

“Is there ever a right time to find out why someone’s trying to kidnap you or worse?” She sat up straight, looking him in the eye, “I asked because I wanted to know. At least now we know what could happen and prepare for it.”

She had a point. There really was no good time or easy way to break it to her. But more importantly, he had underestimated her. Once her visceral reaction had passed, her mind had taken over. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t still worried and more than a little scared, he could see both peeking out beneath the mask she wore. He knew her too well for her to hide that from him.

“Your hand,” she said suddenly, only now really noticing the reddened, slightly swollen knuckles. She reached out; her fingers whisper soft over the injury.

Jorah wondered if she could hear his quickening heartbeat, the rushing sound in his ears drowning out everything else. The warmth of her touch made the ache in the joints nearly disappear, “I’ll be all right.”

Their gazes met and held for what seemed like an eternity, but it was only an instant before hers darted away. He missed the feel of her touching him, her hand drawing back to nervously tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.

The moment over, Jorah helped Daenerys to her feet and walked her back to bed, but she grasped his hand before he could go back to his seat. “I’m sorry I haven’t really listened to you, Jorah. I should have. I’ve made your job so much harder than it had to be. Not anymore. I’ll listen to you.”

“I just want to keep you safe.” He squeezed her hand gently, “That is the only thing that matters to me.”

There was that softness again in his eyes, his hand warm and reassuring holding her own. Reluctantly, she let it go and got back into bed. Sleep didn’t come easily to her that night, her eyes darting over to check if Jorah was still awake. And he was, sitting there quietly, her ever watchful guardian.


	11. Can I Stay with You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah learns an important piece of information. Daenerys' sleep is haunted by a new nightmare and she turns to Jorah for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice, long chapter for my readers! Enjoy!
> 
> I'm behind on responding to your wonderful comments (yet again). I promise to get to them this weekend :)
> 
> Chapter warnings: Mild swearing, emotional hurt/comfort

“You two made the paper again.”

Jorah sighed. “I know. However, there were no mention of names, no photographs, no eyewitness accounts. Only vague details.”

“It’s getting harder to keep the press at bay.”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Barristan said, seemingly offended by Jorah’s implication. “My job’s on the line here.”

Jorah was confused. What did they have to with his friend’s work? “ _Your job?_ ”

Barristan cursed under his breath, “Our division has been watching Aerys for some time now. That’s all I can really tell you; the rest is classified.”

“Bloody hells, you couldn’t have mentioned that sooner?!”

“No! As I said, it’s classified. Need to know.”

“And you didn’t think I needed to know?!” Jorah ran his hand through his hair. He took a calming breath, “I’m sorry mate. Everything’s…”

“I know, it’s all right,” he said quietly, “How is she?”

Jorah turned from the window to look at the hallway leading to her room. He had slipped out just after dawn so she could sleep, but left the door open just enough so that he could hear her if she needed him. “Traumatized.”

“I would have thought the incident in the alley would have affected her more.”

“It wasn’t the same. This time, one of them…” Jorah closed his eyes to the memory of that man grabbing her, his next words leaving him through gritted teeth, “ _touched her_.”

“Shite.” There was a long pause, then, “Look, if you need anything, call me. I’ll do what I can to help.”

“You’ve already gone above and beyond.”

“No, I could do more. Just let me know, yeah?”

“All right.” Jorah went to say something else, but stopped. Instead, he simply thanked his friend and said goodbye.

He pocketed his mobile, mulling over Barristan’s offer of more help. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t need it.

***

               Daenerys woke suddenly, her eyes darting immediately to the chair. It was empty. She sat up fast, dizziness hitting her at the abrupt change in position. She blinked against it, _where was Jorah?_ Daenerys opened her mouth to call for him, but she stopped, hearing the familiar sound of his voice drifting from the sitting room. She fell heavily back to the bed, her heart still pounding with residual panic. She pulled her blankets closer, tighter around herself, breathing the way Jorah had told her last night. Slow in, slow out. She could feel it start to work, her muscles relaxing, the tension in her body uncoiling. Looking over at the clock, she was surprised to find four hours had passed, though she felt as if she had slept only minutes.

               Exhaustion had finally taken her sometime near dawn, the darkness just beginning to fade to soft grey. The last thing she had seen were Jorah’s eyes. So calm, he sat there quietly, arms resting on the padded armrests. She remembered he hadn’t stared at her all night, occasionally he would glance away, a sound somewhere in the house drawing his attention. But it never appeared to be anything to worry about because he didn’t shift his position, didn’t reach for the weapon holstered at his side.

Whatever had drawn him away that morning must have been important. He had stayed the whole night, awake, watching over her. A painful memory of another time surfaced, she had wished for someone to hold her then, to tell her she was safe, to stay with her. Her previous bodyguard hadn’t seemed to understand her body language and she hadn’t dared voice her needs. She’d cried herself to sleep that night, alone in her bedroom.

But Jorah, he was different. He had held her, his embrace warm and strong. It had been a balm to her distressed nerves, a comfort to her frantic mind, solace for her tortured soul. _You’re safe now, Daenerys,_ he had whispered against her hair, and she had felt his words resonate within her. She couldn’t let go of him and he didn’t pull away, he seemed to know she needed him that way. Jorah saw to her, put his life on the line for her, and sacrificed his already precious sleep to be there for her. Always _for her._ She closed her eyes on that thought, letting an unexpected wave of weariness carry her away.

***

Later, while Jorah was preparing his lunch, Lisette came into the kitchen and told him there was someone in the foyer to see Daenerys. He thanked her, and on his way there, he glanced down the hallway, the door to her room still slightly ajar. She was likely still asleep and he knew she needed it, especially after last night. No matter who it was that wanted to see her, Jorah already knew he would tell them she wasn’t receiving any visitors today.

Coming around the corner into the entryway, he recognized the person right away. Even from behind, Daario’s flowing brown locks were unmistakable. Facing a decorative mirror, he fluffed and tousled his hair with his fingers before leaning back to survey his handiwork. Jorah rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

The young man nearly jumped out of his skin, then turned. In his hand, he held a bouquet of cheap multicolored daisies. Daario must have thought he was the picture of male sexiness, what with his shirt barely buttoned and his tight jeans. Jorah thought he looked like a right git.

“Is Daenerys around?”

Jorah clasped his hands behind his back and came to a stop before him, “Yes, but she isn’t seeing anyone today.”

“I saw what happened last night and I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

_I’m sure you do_. “Daenerys is resting now.” For the umpteenth time, Daario fiddled with his hair. He was grating on Jorah’s last nerve and he made up his mind right then to get rid of him. _Fast_. “When she gets up, I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

The young man glanced past Jorah’s shoulder to the hallway he knew led to her room, then met his eyes again, “Okay. Give her these and tell her to call me too.”

_Selfish little…_ “Of course.”

Jorah took the bouquet from his proffered hand and started to walk toward the door, hoping Daario would get the message. Thankfully, he did, turning the knob before tossing a ‘thanks” over his shoulder and leaving. Jorah heard the roar of his motorbike as it sped off down the drive, unable to stop his eyes from rolling yet again.

Alone in the foyer, he stared in disgust at the flowers. _These aren’t even her favorites_ , he thought, shaking his head as he made his way to her bedroom. He had half a mind not to tell her that Daario had stopped by, but that would make him no better than the younger man, petty and childish. Passing the archway that led to the sitting room, he stopped mid-step. Walking backward, he noticed Daenerys sitting in one of the high bar chairs at the kitchen island, sipping from his coffee mug. He reversed course, making just enough noise so that he didn’t startle her.

She turned in her seat at his footfalls and her whole demeanor changed, a smile brightening her face, “Thank you, Jorah. That’s so sweet of you.”

His heart squeezed painfully at the thought that she believed the flowers were from him. “These aren’t from me, Daenerys.”

Her expression crumbled, and in that instant, he wished they were. Although, he would have purchased the ones she loved. “Who are they from then?”

He laid them on the counter. “Daario.”

She blew a breath through her lips and stood, picked up the flowers, and without a parting glance, tossed them in the bin. Jorah’s eyebrows rose, that was unexpected. She reclaimed her seat and took another drink from his mug.

“He also wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

Jorah was utterly confused. _Weren’t these two an item_ , he wondered. Perhaps this was the way young people in a relationship acted. He was so long removed from the dating scene that maybe things had changed since he had last gone out. Whatever it was, he couldn’t help but voice the words that were bouncing around in his head. “I thought that you and Daario were-”

“A couple,” she supplied.

“Well, yes.”

She shook her head, “We were, but what made you think we were still together?”

“The way you were dancing with him at the night club, I thought…”

“Daario and I, it’s…,” she shook her head. “I told him we’re through; he just doesn’t seem to want to accept it. The dancing last night? Pretty much everyone dances that way at those places.”

Well, that cleared things right up for him. She went to take another drink, but he reached for the mug, taking it from her hands. She shot him a look, “Perhaps caffeine isn’t the best thing right now.”

He set it down and turned, putting the kettle on to boil. He opened the cupboard for a mug and the glass jar that held the right kind of tea bags he was looking for. He placed one in the cup, and once the water was ready, poured it over it, letting it steep the requisite time. He added a squeeze of lemon and a bit of honey before placing it in front of her, the faintly floral scent rising with the steam. “Chamomile tea will ease your nerves, help you sleep.”

“Thanks, Jorah,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. He took a seat adjacent to her and they shared a companionable silence. Mulling over her words, he had been so sure they were still a couple. He wondered about his perceptivity, _maybe I’m slipping a bit_. He was usually so good at reading people, but he had somehow missed their breakup. But Daenerys had clearly moved on and Jorah was glad. Daenerys deserved better than Daario. However, he felt a pang of guilt at his thoughts, he shouldn’t be happy about that sort of thing. Breakups were painful, often times messy events. And he knew that all too well.  

***

She was there, in the dimly lit alleyway, dark shadows shifting and darting in the swirling fog. Slumped against the wall, a body, its face turned from her. Her legs carried her toward it even as she felt she shouldn't. The air cleared, a scream trapped in her throat, hands grabbing at her, carrying her away, Jorah's cold, vacant eyes, staring into nothingness...

Daenerys sat up with a cry, chest heaving, her hands a death grip on her sheets. The darkness of her room seemed to be closing in, her heart pounding against her ribs. She nearly fell from the bed in her haste to escape, practically running for the door. She pulled it open to find Jorah standing there, hand poised to knock.

“Daenerys, I-,” he began, features shifting from surprise to worry in an instant as he took in her wide eyes and panicked demeanor. “What is it? Are you all right?”

He sounded so concerned for her, his head inclining a bit so he could try and meet her eyes even as she couldn't bear to have him see her like this. _But hadn't he already_ , she reminded herself. He hadn't shied away from comforting her then, why would now be any different?

“No,” her voice a cracked whisper, her arms hugging herself tightly, tears welling fast.

Jorah's heart ached and he took her in his arms without another thought. It was almost like two days ago, and yet, it was different. Jorah had sensed something shift between them that night, that they were still friends, but also something _more_. Holding her now, feeling and hearing her fear, the front of his shirt growing damp where her face was buried, it finally sunk in that she needed him in a new and different way. He could be her comfort, be her anchor whenever she felt adrift in her emotions. Piece by piece, their relationship was growing, becoming more complex yet defined. Clearer. And while a part of him was still holding back, still hesitant to become involved with her, it was getting smaller and smaller every day, chipped away by every interaction, every laugh, every glance.

After a time, Daenerys lifted her head and looked at Jorah. He seemed even taller than usual, what with her in her bare feet. But he wasn't imposing, not to her anyway and certainly not when he held her. He gazed down at her, those blue eyes so full of kindness, so gentle…so unlike anything she had ever seen in a man's eyes before.

“Jorah,” she sniffled, “can I stay with you?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by her request. He didn’t know what he had expected to happen, but it certainly wasn't that. His mind was at war with heart, she needed him, but bringing her back to his room, that...

“Please,” she added softly, pulling him from his thoughts, cementing his decision. Whatever she needed from him to help her; he would give her.

“Of course.” He walked her to his room, letting her enter first, closing over the door after.

The space seemed different to her. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour or the rawness of her feelings, but his bedroom felt safe. A haven. Just like him. That was not to say that his room wasn't comfortable the other time she had been in there because it had been. But now...

The sheet and blanket were tossed back, a book face down on the mattress. _He’d been awake,_ she realized. The bed looked cozy, _warm_ and Daenerys wasted no time climbing under the covers, waiting for Jorah. With a deep breath, he walked over and picked up the hardcover, setting it on the nightstand. Then he joined her, keeping some space between them, turning on his side to face her. They lay in silence for some time before she reached out for his hand, their fingers intertwining as if they had done that a thousand times before. She stared at their clasped hands, suddenly very interested in the maze of veins weaving their way under his skin. It was easier than meeting his eyes. Because she knew if she did, she'd start crying again.

“I dreamt about the alleyway,” she said quietly, “shadows taking me.” Her bottom lip began trembling, her gaze lifting to his at last, “You were that dead man, Jorah. You couldn't...,”

Fat, hot tears spilled over the bridge of her nose, darkening the blue pillowcase beneath her face. Her breath came in hiccupping gasps, his chest clenching almost painfully at the sight. He curled his arm around her and pulled her close, her head tucking under his chin. She felt so small against him, his need to protect her instinctive and strong. He soothed his hand over her back in slow circles, a gesture that he hoped conveyed comfort as much as a reassurance of his presence. _I’m here, you’re safe,_ he thought.

Jorah wasn't sure how long he held her, but he didn’t let go until he felt her draw back to rub under her nose, the heel of her palm brushing away the tracks of her tears. “Sorry about that,” her fingers swiping at the wetness on his t-shirt.

“No harm done.” He reached over to the nightstand, pulling a few tissues from the box.

She took them with a small, albeit, sad smile. “It's probably been a while since you had a woman crying on you.”

“It must be, I can't remember the last time.”

“You're very good at making me feel better.”

“No one can survive in this world without help.”

“Even you?”

He breathed a chuckle, “Even me.”

“I thought I was past thinking about what happened that night. Why now?”

“You went through a traumatic experience recently. Your subconscious is trying to process everything.”

She seemed to consider his words. He was right, to an extent. But it went deeper than that.  She had dreamt he was dead, which meant she feared losing him. The subconscious didn’t deal in rational concepts, it dealt in emotion. And his loss would be devastating to her.

“Your nightmares...are they all about the war?”

“Most of them.”

“What do you fear, Jorah,” she asked, changing the subject slightly.

“Rationally or irrationally?”

“Either one.”

“Death,” he replied simply.

“You're afraid of dying,” she said, a bit surprised.

“Even the bravest men fear that.” He sighed, his eyes darting away, then down to their hands. “Failure. Failing you,” he added so softly she wouldn't have heard him if he wasn't so close.

“You've never failed me, Jorah,” she asserted.

“It only takes one small mistake and-,” his eyes met hers, so pained, before he shut them tight.

“Jorah,” her hand slipped from his to cup his jaw, his eyelids flying open in shock, “I trust you with my life for a very good reason. Nothing’s ever happened to me with you by my side.”

The muscles beneath her palm tensed and jumped. “That man grabbed you.”

Now she understood. Jorah saw that as a possible failure. A lapse in his service to her. And while she wished it had never happened, it could have gone much worse for her. But it hadn’t. He’d brought her to safety, carried her when she’d fallen, evaded a tailing vehicle as if he did that sort of thing every day. He hadn’t failed at all.

“That’s not failure, Jorah,” she said softly, her thumb brushing over his sharp cheekbone to the edge of his beard. “You saved my life that night.”

Their eyes met and held, and in those blue depths, she saw that he believed her. Time seemed to slow, everything in those moments heightened in a way they hadn’t before. The rasp of his whiskers against the pad of her thumb, the soft light from the bedside lamp outlining his strong silhouette, the easily recognizable energy between them. Only now, it was merely a gentle hum, the calm realization that you are with the one you should be. Daenerys had never felt that before, certainly never with Daario, and she wondered if Jorah felt it too. His features had softened, only the lines at the corners of his eyes remained, slightly deeper than before. His small smile, likely unnoticeable to everyone else, but not to her. She knew him too well. And in that moment, she knew he had felt it too.

Her hand left his face to resume its previous position, the warmth adding another layer of peace to her psyche. A flash of disappointment darted across his eyes like a hummingbird, if she had blinked, she would have missed it. Her nightmare now forgotten, her eyelids felt heavy, her body relaxing into the comfort of Jorah’s bed. The blankets and pillow smelled faintly of him, a scent she had come to associate with safety and quiet strength. With a misty forest on some small faraway island, probably like the one he hailed from. In her mind’s eye, she saw them there, walking hand in hand amongst the trees.

“Clowns.”

The comment was so out of the blue that it made her giggle. “Clowns?”

“My irrational fear. I hate them, always have.”

“I don’t like them either. But mine’s spiders.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you have me around then.” They shared a smile, then Jorah said, “Get some sleep, Daenerys. I can tell you’re tired.”

She yawned, as if proving his point. “Thanks, Jorah.”

“Of course,” he murmured, watching her eyelids drift closed.

It wasn’t long after that Daenerys had fallen asleep. Jorah lay there watching her, studying her delicate features. She was so beautiful, but the amazing thing about it was that she didn’t know. She never flaunted her looks or her body, she dressed in ways that she felt comfortable, not in a conscious effort to get some sort of response from the opposite sex. That just happened naturally. But it wasn’t just her physical beauty that drew him in, that kept his heart beating solely for her. It was everything else about her that had him captivated. He kept telling himself that he couldn’t pursue her, his mind conjuring up mere excuses. He knew eventually his resolve would be worn so thin; he wouldn’t be able to resist her anymore. His stubbornness could only sustain him for so long.

Perhaps it was the fact it was late at night, but his thoughts began to wander and he found he didn’t want to stop them. An amazing, attractive woman sleeping beside him, something Jorah hadn’t experienced in a while. Years in fact. Sure, he had dated a few times since his divorce, but he could never bring himself to just ‘sleep with someone’ as his friends suggested. Jorah was a different sort of man when it came to that. He needed to feel a connection with a woman, feel the crackle of chemistry and attraction before he could take them to bed. He smiled to himself, watching her snuggle down into the blankets, a contented sound escaping her lips. There was no mistaking the connection Jorah felt with Daenerys and he was fairly certain she felt it too. He closed his eyes, feeling sleep take hold easily for the first time in months.

***

Daenerys woke gradually, a familiar face filling her slowly focusing vision. Chiseled jawline, straight nose, strong cheekbones. A sweep of soft golden lashes, eyebrows nearly the same shade. His features were so relaxed in his slumber and just as handsome as when he was awake. Her gaze dropped to his lips and lingered, the hazy blue-grey light and earliness of the hour had her thoughts drifting into territory she only ventured to when she was alone. _How would it be to kiss him? Would his ginger beard feel prickly against her chin? Would it tickle her to a fit of giggles?_ Daario’s facial hair had felt coarse, abrading her tender skin. Under her palm only a few hours prior, Jorah’s whiskers had been slightly scratchy, but not rough at all. Stubble spread down his neck, something she had never seen before. He likely shaved every morning and a silly thought entered her mind: _would Jorah let her shave him there?_ It was such an intimate act, such a vulnerable place on the body. His measured pulse throbbed just beside his Adam’s apple, a sudden desire spreading through her to press her lips there, to feel the warmth. She wanted to stay there beside him for the rest of the morning, savoring the stillness of his room, the coziness of his bed. The gentle susurrus of Jorah’s even breathing was the only sound breaking up the quietness, but she found it soothing. Daenerys went back to studying Jorah’s face, memorizing the lines for when she wanted to sketch again. The impetus to draw or paint had left her since that fateful night, she would stare at a blank page in her sketchbook and nothing would come to her. It was as if there was a barrier between her creativity and her hands, the line of communication between the two severed. But it was likely only temporary, other times in her past had been the same.

She wondered why she had never thought to draw Jorah before. His striking features, his beautiful eyes, were made for art. Even just his strong profile would have inspired the masters of old. How had it not inspired _her_ until now? She knew the reason, her teeth tucking into her bottom lip. Her heart, the center of her emotional expression, had been tamped down and brushed aside by her rational mind. She had tried so hard to ignore the blossoming feelings she had for Jorah, instead, falling for a man who didn’t care for her even a fraction of the way Jorah did. Would Daario have carried her to safety, tended to her wounds with a deft yet oh so gentle touch, sat by her bedside all night protecting her? _Not in a million years,_ she mentally scoffed. But that night, opening Jorah’s birthday gift to her, sitting on the very bed she lay on now, she had finally understood that her feelings were grossly misplaced. A book, and of her favorite artist to boot, had meant more to her than any gift she had received. Jorah _knew_ her and she had turned a blind eye. But that night had been a turning point and it felt so right to take that path. Daenerys was aware that Jorah enjoyed the time they spent together, valued their intellectual and sometimes philosophical conversations. But she also knew he thought she was beautiful. His eyes gave him away. And so did his gestures. Stolen glances, little smiles he gifted only to her, gentlemanly touches that felt anything but. Yet she knew he would never act on his feelings just as she wouldn't. She was afraid and Jorah likely was too. Maybe for differing reasons or maybe not, it didn’t matter. Broken hearts made a person gun shy in a way, made them hesitant to pull the trigger on love again. But she hadn't really loved Daario. And Daenerys didn’t know much of Jorah's previous marriage, although the little she knew told her it hadn't been all that happy. She gave herself a mental shake, these thoughts were too much for the current time of day. She turned her face slowly into the pillow, taking a long, deep breath of the scent that clung to the fabric, letting it calm her as it always did.

Big mistake.

Out of the corner of her vision, she registered movement. Eyelids blinking at her, brow tensing briefly in mild confusion, then softening in understanding, likely remembering the events of the hours prior. Still faintly sleepy blue eyes gazed back at her, their gaze curiously inscrutable. _Oh gods, he totally saw me do that._ Her face felt hot now and so did her ears, her teeth worrying at her lip.

“Good morning, Daenerys.”

“Morning, Jorah,” she answered, mentally wincing at the slightly higher than usual pitch to her words.

If he noticed, he didn’t let on that he did. “How did you sleep?”

“Better than I have in the last couple of days. You?”

“That’s good.” His lips set in a contented line, “The same actually.”

“That's good.”

Their smiles deepened at the repetition of their responses. A panicked yelp drew Jorah's eyes from hers, had him rising onto his hand and turning, reaching toward the nightstand for his gun. The door swung open so wildly Lisette had to put her hand out to stop it from hitting her.

“Mr. Mormont, Daenerys no in her room. She-,” It took the maid a second to realize what she was looking at, her wide eyes darting almost comically between the two before her features shifted into a broad, knowing grin. “I leave you alone,” then she closed the door over with a parting wink.

A second passed before Jorah's posture relaxed and he fell back on the mattress, chuckling. No longer able to hold back her amusement at the absurdity of the situation, Daenerys did too. Jorah’s deep laughter only made her happier, taking her mind far away from the world she lived in.

He ended with a sigh, turning his face toward hers. Joy still crinkled the corners of his dancing eyes, her hand coming up to stifle a residual giggle. It was only then that they both realized the assumption Lisette had made about their current positions. Jorah cleared his throat, his eyes darting away nervously, “I suppose we better get our day started.”

“Yeah,” she said, rising and pulling back the covers. She let her feet dangle from the edge of the bed before she stood and walked to his door, her hand resting on the handle. She looked back at him, noticing he had moved into a sitting position, his back against the headboard. Her lips parted to say something before she changed her mind and swallowed thickly, “Thanks, Jorah. For everything.”

“Of course, Daenerys,” he replied, his expression soft.

She lingered a second longer, then left, closing the door behind her.

He waited a minute to make sure she wouldn’t come back before his eyes slipped shut, letting out a heavy sigh. In the tumult of the previous hours’ events, Jorah hadn’t noted Daenerys' sleeping attire. An oversized t-shirt. And little underneath. He was infinitely glad he hadn't observed that before or else he would have embarrassed himself. Gods, her shapely legs, the fleeting glimpse of a red undergarment when she got out of bed. _His_ bed. That train of thought wasn't helping things, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose hard to derail them. He instead chose to focus on something else, namely what he had woken up to Daenerys _doing_. She was smelling his pillow, though he wasn’t sure why until he lifted it to his nose and sniffed. All Jorah smelled was himself and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. _She likes the way I smell._ The feeling was mutual, whatever body wash or shampoo Daenerys used was very mild, but quite pleasant. A hint of citrus, almost certainly lemons, and something floral, although Jorah couldn’t place what flower it was. But beneath it, her natural scent was far more appealing. It had been quite prevalent the night before, what with their proximity. There was something about it that when he held her, he never wanted to let go. Jorah knew smell was connected to memory. From the scent of old books and worn leather in his father’s study to fresh hay and rich, tangy alfalfa at his aunt’s farm, those were happy remembrances of his time as a child and teenager. Adulthood held the cloying odor of his ex-wife’s perfume, the acrid stench of gun smoke, and the sickly-sweet smell of death. And now the light, calming scent of Daenerys. It was unmistakable and he would remember it until his last breath.

Glancing over to where she had slept, Jorah’s hand came to rest there, the fading warmth a pleasant reminder of the good that had come out of her request to stay with him. Both of them had benefitted greatly, Jorah having slept better than he had in quite some time and Daenerys not suffering from any further nightmares. He had been concerned about the unintended consequences, but none had occurred. It was on that positive note that Jorah got out of bed, heading to the bathroom to shave and get ready for the day.


	12. Empowerment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is still struggling with the attempted kidnapping. Jorah finally realizes a way he can help her not only deal with her feelings but also empower her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a last-minute change to this chapter. A portion that didn't quite fit was removed and added to the next one. It made more sense to do it that way.
> 
> Chapter warnings: None.

Daenerys spent most of the next few days curled up on the couch watching TV or holed up in her room with the door shut. Jorah couldn’t help but notice that when she did walk around the house, it was in a daze, her movements automatic. It was such a difference from the way she had been earlier. When she did eat, it was very little, picking at her plate like a small bird. At times, he had to say her name twice just to get her attention, and even then, her eyes were distant. He knew what had happened at the club was still affecting her and he was irresolute of how to fix it for her. When he was plagued by unwanted thoughts or feelings, he did something physical to burn off the tension: hitting a punching bag or playing football. He had thought that perhaps art would be her refuge, but he was concerned; she hadn’t ventured up to the studio in some time.

One night a couple of days later, she went to her room early, saying she was tired. Jorah had glanced at the clock and noticed it was only 8pm. He had said goodnight to her, but had received only a tiny smile in return, one that did not reach her eyes. He had watched a film on TV for a while before making his way to the gym for a quick work out. His mind was only half-focused as he considered ideas for how he could help her. And then it hit him, the answer right in front of his face. If it worked for him, then perhaps it would work for her too. _It doesn’t hurt to give it a shot_ , he mused. Vowing to send Lisette to buy her the necessary equipment, he stowed his gloves and left the exercise room for a quick shower and then a good night’s sleep.

***

“Daenerys,” Jorah said, pausing outside her open bedroom door the next afternoon, “Meet me in the gym in ten minutes.”

               “For what?”

               “You’ll see. Dress comfortably,” he said cryptically, then walked away.

               Closing her book and getting up from the bed, she began to change, wondering all the while just what he had planned.

               She entered the gym to find him already warming up, his left arm across his body, his right hand applying gentle pressure to the area where his triceps were. Even in sweatpants and a t-shirt, he still managed to look handsome.

               “You should stretch too,” he gestured with his head to the padded floor next to him, “I don’t want you to pull a muscle.”

               Sighing, she stood next to him and followed his exercises, limbering up for whatever he had in store for her. Jorah tried to keep his eyes to himself, but it was extremely hard. In her black yoga pants and fitted red tank top, she was stunning. Her long, silver braid swung from side to side when she moved, the tip of it brushing like a lover’s fingers across her lower back. Her petite body was the perfect balance of soft and strong, her feminine curves enticing him to stare. Daenerys deserved more than to be ogled by him, so he bent into a hamstring stretch that ensured he wouldn’t be able to see her.

               When they were finished, he walked over to the table by the wall and grabbed a pair of lightly padded training gloves. He came to stand before her, “I want you to put these on.”

               Turning them over in her hands, she noticed they left her thumbs exposed, which probably had something to do with making a proper fist. With an arched eyebrow, she asked, “Where did you get them?”

               He crossed his arms, “I sent the maid out for them this morning.” The corner of his mouth rose, “You have such small hands, I think those are kid’s gloves.”

               She stuck her tongue out at him before she put one of them between her knees and slipped on the left first, securing the Velcro so that it was snug around her wrist. She did the same with the other then hit her fists together, “Okay Mickey, let’s do this.”

               Jorah chuckled. “Hold on there Rocky, I think you need to learn how to punch first.”

               “I know how to do that,” she said indignantly, her hands on her hips.

               Standing to the side and gesturing to the punching bag, “By all means, show me.”

               She stood with her feet a shoulder’s width apart and swung with her right arm, gloved fist meeting canvas, causing only a dull thud.

               Jorah looked utterly amused watching her attempt at a punch. He wouldn’t call it pathetic because it wasn’t; it was simply that she had never been taught the proper way.

               Her shoulders sagged, “All right, so I guess I don’t know how.”

               “You have good form; it’s your strike that’s lacking.”

               And he should know; his eyes had roamed over her, taking in the fine details of her body. _Purely for the purposes of their current activity,_ he told himself. Her legs were toned and her core was strong, something he reasoned was the result of all that yoga she did, and this would benefit her greatly.

               “It’s all about snap.” He approached the bag and took a pugilist stance; “Pushing from the shoulder is wasted energy and does not have nearly enough power behind it. Let the muscles of your arm relax,” he threw a textbook punch and then turned his head to her, “that allows the transfer of force at the end, rather than losing it along the way.”

               He showed her the difference and she saw what he meant; the loose control afforded a stronger hit; the movement of his arm was fast like a whip. She worked at it for a long while; his hands over hers at times as he stood behind her to direct her arms, showing her the ‘snap’ he spoke about. Under any other circumstances, she would have been turned on by what he was doing with her, but she was so focused on learning that she didn’t have a chance to realize the other feelings and sensations until they took a break.

               She blotted the sweat from her brow with the towel he had tossed her and watched him do the same before he took a drink from a water bottle. Observing the slow roll of his throat, she thought back to the feel of his chest against her back, the power contained in his lean frame. While he was not the muscle-bound gym rat her last bodyguard had been, she still felt completely safe with him because his strength came from being a soldier, the memories contained in his body and mind were all centered around staying alive and keeping others protected too. And that was not something one could learn from a book or by taking a course, it came from instinct. Jorah had an almost uncanny sense of the world around him, she called it his ‘Jorah-sense’ and that always drew a small smile from him.

After getting a drink from his bottle, she set it aside while he slipped on his own gloves. His weren’t like hers, the palms large, resembling heavily padded pot holders. He must have seen the look on her face as he walked to the center of the floor and gestured with a wave of his hand for her to follow, “Time for something different.” Approaching him slowly, she stopped in her tracks when he said, “I want you to hit me.”

               “What,” she scoffed, “I’m not gonna do that.”

               He sighed. “The demon in your head is not that punching bag,” his hands pressed against his chest, “It’s a living, breathing _man_.”

               She looked away, _was she that transparent_? She had thought that she had hidden her feelings from that night pretty well, but apparently, she hadn’t done that great of a job after all.

               “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quietly, worrying her bottom lip.

               “I know what it is like to battle with monsters in your mind. You have to give them a physical manifestation or you’ll never truly be free of them,” his voice softened, “And not only that, I know _you_ , Daenerys. The last several days, you’ve walked around here like a robot.”

               She met his eyes; the gentle blue that always seemed to bring her comfort exactly when she needed it was now softly intent. He was right, she felt hollow inside, and if she thought about that night long and hard enough, she could still feel that man’s hand on her arm. She was so very _tired_ of carrying this burden on her shoulders, wanting so badly to be rid of it for good.

                “I’m not Jorah right now. I’m the personification of your anger and fear,” he raised his hands, palms facing out, and tilted his head toward each one, “And I want you to hit me like you mean it.”

               Taking a deep breath, and using perfect form, she hit one of his raised hands as hard as she could.

               “Do it again, but harder.”

               She did, but he still wasn’t satisfied, “Not good enough.”

               Gritting her teeth, she felt the anger bubbling under the surface. She hit him again, but he shook his head, “Still not hard enough.”

               A sound of frustration filled the air and she did it again, “Come on, Daenerys, you can do better than that.”

               His admonishment was meant to spur her on and it worked. All of the emotions she had been suppressing since the night club burst free, and she screamed, punching him with everything.

“That’s it.”

               THUMP!

               “Yes!”

               WHAM!

               “Again!”

               **BAM!**

               After the last punch, she collapsed to the floor, her emotions running down her cheeks, her shoulders heaving. She vaguely heard him remove his gloves and sit down behind her, his arms wrapping around her, drawing her back against him. She was limp and went easily, the warmth of his embrace obliterating the last piece of fear that her punches had been chipping away at. He said nothing; understanding that his silence was the perfect final piece she required.

She turned in his arms after a time, “I didn’t know how much I needed to do that.” Sniffling, she met his eyes, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He stood and held out his hand to help her up. Standing next to him, she removed the gloves and handed them back to him, “Perhaps we can do that again.”

The way she said it was half-question, half-statement, gauging his receptiveness to a possible second round.

               “Of course, any time.”

               Daenerys got an idea as she watched him walk to the shelving unit, putting away his gloves alongside hers.

               “Jorah,” he turned, “can you teach me how to defend myself?”

“Sure, but I think you’ve had enough for one day.”

               “How about tomorrow?”

               “Tomorrow’s grand.”

***

               Daenerys hadn’t been kidding about wanting to learn self-defense. About two hours after lunch the next day, she had bounded off to the gym, dressed and ready to learn. Jorah didn’t mind teaching her; he thought it was a good idea that she acquire some knowledge of how to protect herself. It was a simple fact that _something_ could happen to him and that would mean that she would need to be able to either escape or fight back. While she was small in stature, it afforded her some advantages. She would be harder to grasp and quicker than a big man, it would be her lack of upper body strength that she would have to overcome with cunning, split-second decisions.

               Once they were stretched and warmed up, he said, “I think we should begin with some basic information. Defending yourself is about prevention first and foremost, defusing or avoiding certain situations so you don’t have to resort to violence. If it’s unavoidable, you have to commit. There is no halfway, all or nothing. It is your life you’re fighting for and you have to tap into the rage, see ‘red’ if you will,” he pressed his hand to his chest, “and you have to feel it here.” She nodded and he continued, “This is not the time to be Miss Nice. Fight dirty if you have to because your attacker will. Sometimes you only have a few seconds to inflict maximum injury before he gains the upper hand. Once that happens, it won’t be pretty.”

               His words may have been chilling, but he was right. She nodded again, “Okay, so basically, fight hard and don’t hesitate.”

               “Exactly.” He took a deep breath, “We’ll start easy and work our way up to the more difficult.”

               He reached out and grabbed her wrist without warning, and on impulse, she tried to pull away. In response, he tightened his hold just a bit before letting go. “See, you went on instinct. It may have been wrong, but at least you reacted. Now I just need to teach you one possible _right_ way to get out of that hold.”

               Grasping her wrist again, he told her, “Squat down and lean forward to me, bending your elbow toward my forearm.”

               She did as he instructed and noticed his wrist was at an angle that looked very uncomfortable. Keeping it up, his grip soon loosened and he let go altogether.

               “Using pressure and the right angle to your advantage, my body will only be able to move one way. I can’t hold on if the muscles are stretched too much, the same goes for your assailant.”

               “Now, if he grabs you around the neck,” his hands wrapped lightly around her throat, “You have to raise your right arm and turn your hips away simultaneously. This eliminates the use of his left hand, breaking the hold. Then you bring down the flat of your arm across his and lift your knee into his stomach or groin.”

               They did it at full speed, her body twisting away, his left hand no longer on her throat. She yanked down her arm, buckling his other elbow and bringing her knee into contact with his stomach. He pulled away, rubbing at his abdomen, clearing his throat, “Nice work.”

               “Did I hurt you,” she asked.

               “Not really, I tightened my core in anticipation.”

               “Won’t my attacker do that too?”

               “No, he probably won’t expect you to fight back. But that’s something in your favor.”

               Stepping behind her, he put her in a rear-naked chokehold, “Escaping this requires an element of surprise because you can’t reach your attacker’s face or do anything about the arm that isn’t around your neck. Crouch down and to the side, then slide your left leg behind my right leg and lean backward, holding onto my left pant leg, pulling it forward. Go ahead and do it, but you have to act fast.”

               Following his instructions, she executed it well enough, toppling them to the floor, her torso half over his.

               “From here, you jam your elbow into his stomach or face and run.”

               “Okay,” she said and stood, reaching out her hand to help him up.

               Once on his feet, he said, “Now someone could grab you like this,” he pulled her into a bear hug, “and you would think that he’s won since your arms are trapped. But there is a way out. Ball up your fist and slam it into his groin.” He felt her start to act and he quickly added, “Don’t actually do it.”

               She heard the playfulness in his voice and couldn’t help but laugh, “I wasn’t planning on it.”

               “Good to know. Now bend your arms and pump them back and forth. Hitting his groin will distract him enough that the movements of your arms should mean he’ll let go long enough that you can then turn and grab his right arm, pulling him down onto your raised knee with your hand on his neck.”

               Going through the motions, Daenerys felt herself fill with confidence. She knew that if someone actually attacked her, they wouldn’t go easy on her like Jorah was. It would be for real, but using the moves he taught her without regard as to whether or not she was hurting the person made her feel like she had a fighting chance to escape and survive.

               They reviewed everything he had taught her so far with him making small corrections here and there and suggesting subtle variations on the techniques. Sweat ran down her face and back, the grey of his t-shirt dotted darker on his chest where perspiration had gathered. He suggested they take a break and grabbed her a bottle of water from the small fridge in the corner as well as one for himself. They sat facing one another on the floor and she had to ask him the one question that had been nagging at the back of her mind, “Where did you learn to do all that?”

               Rubbing a towel over his neck and across his forehead, he said, “The military academy laid down the foundation of hand to hand combat and defense training. But after I left, and entered private security, I decided that I needed to expand my knowledge. So I studied extensively with a friend of mine from the Israeli Special Forces, learning their methods. The real world is not the same as a war zone in many ways; you’re far more likely to be engaging in close fighting than using firearms. Krav Maga turned out to be the perfect fit.”

               “Have you ever actually used the stuff you just taught me?”

               “Countless times and to varying degrees of success.”

               “ _Varying degrees_? That doesn’t sound good.”

               He chuckled. “No, it’s often not pleasant when your first line of defense fails and the alternative is less than ideal.”

               “You’ve killed people before, haven’t you?” She asked it quietly, her eyes studying his face.

               “Yes, I have. But believe me when I tell you that I don’t take pride in that. I do everything in my power to avoid it. Killing someone is the very last resort.”

                 She toyed with her shoelace, her mind going over what he had just told her. Jorah wasn’t like her other bodyguards, especially her last one. That man had something he called his ‘kill book’, a journal that had apparently greatly impressed her father. She had only seen a few pages of it once, pictures of his victims with graphic descriptions of their demise. It made her sick to her stomach, someone who enjoyed killing people. Jorah had killed before, but he did it only when absolutely necessary. Something about that was very appealing to her, a man with a sense of humanity to go with his protective instinct.

               Using his towel, she wiped at the sweat on her own neck and forehead, deciding a change of subject was in order. “Is there anything else you can teach me?”

“Sure. Those were the most common ways that someone might attack you. Assailants usually go for the easiest and quickest way of subduing their victims. Now, if they do succeed in getting you on the ground, they will most likely pin you,” he gestured with his hand for her to lie down, “and straddle you like this.”

He climbed over her, his knees on either side of her waist, his hands restraining her wrists above her head. Jorah hadn’t expected to see the flash of heat in her eyes or a flush rise on her cheeks as he loomed over her. It wasn’t one of anger, rather, it was _different_ and it derailed his train of thought. Her lips parted, her breathing a bit more labored than from just their activity. Seeming to rouse from her trance, she struggled a bit in his grip and he thought he was holding her too hard. He made to pull back, but her words stopped him, “No, it’s okay, you’re not hurting me. How do I get out of this?”

“You have to thrust your hips up into me, pulling your hands toward your head and rolling to the side.”

“Like this”, she asked, her body moving under his as she followed his directions.

Jorah found himself on his back, looking up at her wide triumphant smile, “That’s fairly good. But what if he counters with this,” he grasped her hands and flipped their positions, drawing her underneath him, his chest against her back.

She tried to remember everything he had taught her, but it was so very hard, the press of his body like this made her skin tingle, her mind a tangle of very inappropriate thoughts. Swallowing roughly, she wiggled and bucked under him before she bent her knee and the heel of her foot came into contact with something that made him suddenly let go and roll to her side, coughing and groaning as he cursed under his breath. Turning her head, she saw his eyes were shut tight, one hand trapped between his bent legs. _Oops._  

“Jorah, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s all right, that was entirely my fault,” he wheezed.

“I’m sure that’s not the way you’re supposed to get out of that, but-”

“Trust me,” he interrupted, eyes watering, “if you did that, he’d regret attacking you.”

Daenerys didn’t want to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. Jorah joined her soon after, the absurdity of the whole situation warranted it. She flopped on her back next to him, her sides hurting as she wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. “That was a lot of fun,” she sighed.

“Yes, for _you_.”

“I’m really sorry about that.”

“I know, I was only joking with you.”

As they lay there side by side, catching their breath, a thought crossed her mind. She sat up, “Jorah, if that man had managed to kidnap me the other night, how would I get out of being tied up?”

His eyes snapped open and he turned his head to look at her. _Tied up_ , he thought, _I sure hope she doesn’t want me to do that to her._ Nipping that idea in the bud, he responded, “It all depends on what material they use and how they do it. Rope, twine, or duct tape can be rubbed against the sharp edge of something to cut through it, electrical cord and zip ties are a whole other animal entirely. Those are difficult, but not the worst. That award goes to handcuffs. In order to get out of those, you have to be willing to dislocate your thumb, or if they are locked very tight, break the bone.”

She grimaced. “That sounds painful.”

“I’ve never had to do it, but I’ve heard it can be.”

“Okay, so what if they are able to tie me to a chair, what can I do then?”

“That’s fairly simple,” he said standing and walking into the hallway, returning a moment later with a wooden high-backed chair.

Taking a seat, he drew his arms around the sides and grabbed a spindle in each hand, “As long as your feet aren’t tied to the chair, you can spread your legs and stand, ramming the chair’s legs into the person guarding you.”

She giggled. “I don’t know why, but that reminds me of a little bull.”

“Well, the legs are a bit like horns, so I can see how you’d draw that allusion.”

“Thank you for doing this with me. And, again, I’m really sorry about, you know…” she said, gesturing to his crotch.

“No problem. And, again, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. _After I ice it for a few hours_ , he mused.

“I hope I never have to use the things you taught me today.”

He stopped in the doorway, “With me around, you won’t have to.”


	13. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah makes an interesting discovery in Daenerys' studio. But it is a secret that she has kept all these months that finally reaches the surface and brings them closer together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and/or left a comment/kudo (which I learned is a back formation of kudos...nifty). I am *staggered* by the love this story has received. It means so much to me :D
> 
> Chapter warnings: angst, descriptions of past murders, discussion of a difficult past experience

Daenerys and Jorah continued to practice what he had taught her as well as some new techniques and what to do in certain specific situations. Her demeanor slowly shifted too, each day, she smiled more, laughed more. And Jorah was very pleased about that. It pained him to see her suffering emotionally because it was not like a cut or scraped knee, something that could easily be fixed by a bandage. It required _more._ He did everything he could to support her and sometimes it was just his mere presence that helped the most. However, one morning Jorah decided that Daenerys needed a little nudge back into art, so he sent Lisette out to buy a sketchbook and a specific set of markers he knew Daenerys favored for her work. He knew she wanted to start creating again, he could tell by the tiny doodles she started leaving again at the edges of his newspaper, by the way she would stare outside, her head tilted, her toes fidgeting against the carpet. That was something she had always done when she was in her ‘creative mode’. So, it was that afternoon that he had left the art tools on the counter, sitting there eating his sandwich, waiting for her to come and eat her own he had made her. She had rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped short, eying the supplies before turning to him. He had planned to gently encourage her, but the grin that broke across her face, complete with those two beautiful dimples, stole his ability to speak. She had gathered them up in her arms, holding them against her chest as she picked up the plate he had left for her, stopping beside him on her way out to say a soft, but heartful ‘thank you’. And Jorah couldn’t be sure, but he thought he had seen a glimmer of wetness in the corners of her eyes as she left.

               Daenerys’ desire to paint, to create, returned with a vengeance after that fateful day in the kitchen. Jorah barely saw her, what with the hours she spent in the studio. And when he did see her, she usually had a journal or some sort of blank bound book with her, a pencil tucked into her hasty chignon. She would sometimes leave her sketchbooks sitting around the house, lying open, their pages filled with charcoal drawings of the back garden, of landscapes she saw in magazines or on TV. Marker illustrations in vibrant colors of earthly and fantastical beasts. Pencil sketches of her friends. Sometimes he would see her out of the corner of his eye while he worked out in the home gym or sat by the window reading, her head tilted to the side, watching him before glancing down, her drawing implement of choice for that day moving over the page. She thought she was being surreptitious about it, but he noticed everything. It was what he was paid to do, after all.

               One afternoon, he went up to the studio to tell her lunch was ready. He didn’t find her there, which was odd because she had told him that’s where she was going to be when she left him after eating breakfast. He walked over to the large glass drafting table by the floor-to-ceiling window. Its surface was covered in large sheets of white paper, tubes of paint, cups of used and clean brushes, markers, colored pencils and sketchbooks of all sizes. Jorah flipped through the pages of the one at the top of the pile and found mostly drawings of animals and plants. But as he continued on, the sketches changed. Jorah was surprised to discover that there were numerous pages devoted entirely to him: reading the paper, doing pull-ups, talking on the phone, and working out on the heavy bag. She even had a few of him sleeping. Some of them were rough and half-finished, however, many others were complete. Her attention to detail was amazing, the lines and shadows created by the lean muscle in his arms and shoulders as he punched or lifted himself in a pull-up, the prominent angle of his cheekbones, his strong jawline in profile, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and the strength of his gaze all leapt off the page. Even the features he didn’t particularly care for in himself, the lines across his forehead, the thin, nearly faded scar along the bottom left edge of his beard were nuanced, subtle. It was as if she had drawn an exact copy of some advertisement for Burberry or an upscale athletic clothing line. She had made him look rugged. _Handsome_. _Is this how she really sees me_ , he thought? Jorah had never really given much thought to his appearance, though he never lacked for feminine attention. But these drawings…they were something akin to, well, _art._ Each one a unique masterpiece, showcasing something different. It was as if she was telling his story in every charcoal line, softening his flaws in every blending smudge of cerulean, ginger and black. Daenerys saw him as he was, not the man she wished him to be. In her eyes, he was just Jorah. A former soldier with tortured dreams, a bodyguard driven to keep her safe by an unspoken love, a man with a good heart.

               Yet it was his eyes in each and every drawing that staggered him. Apparently, they weren’t just one shade of blue. He noted a burst of color surrounding the pupil that resembled a summer sky which melded seamlessly into a slightly deeper shade out to the edge of his irises. There were grey flecks sprinkled here and there too. Jorah had never realized they were so complex; all he had ever seen when he had looked in the mirror was blue looking back at him. Daenerys had evidently been studying him very closely, she certainly had a keen artist’s eye for detail. And she conveyed the emotions she saw there with a deft hand. The sparkle of barely contained amusement. The subtle seriousness of concentration. The gentle softness of concern. He knew his eyes always gave him away, he’d been told so in the past. However, with the way Lyn had talked about it, she had made it seem like a weakness. Daenerys clearly saw it differently. _The eyes are the windows to the soul._ And she had seen his soul, it was right there on paper, looking back at him.      

Jorah closed the book, and in the process of setting it aside, he noticed the corner of a page at the bottom of the pile, the purple color catching his eye. He moved the others carefully out of the way and simply stared at the image before him. It was him, but he was dressed in armour, the breastplate inky black, his clothing underneath dark too. A growling bear’s face was etched into the plackart and the intensity of Jorah’s piercing gaze was nearly as fierce. His gleaming broadsword with its silver cross-guard engraved with intricate Celtic knotwork was drawn and ready to strike down the shadowy figure that lurked at the edge of the page. Behind him, protected by his tall form and broad shoulders, a woman stood in a flowing lilac gown, her hand resting on his left pauldron, her long, pale hair settling in waves around her. It was Daenerys; her violet eyes boring into his soul.

“You weren’t supposed to see that!” He looked up to find her rushing to his side, embarrassment written all over her face. He took the sketchbook from the table when she tried to reach for it. She huffed in exasperation and held out her hand, “Give it back.”

“Is this how you see me?”

His question was simple and it should have been a simple enough one for her to answer, but she suddenly felt shy. He had found something she didn’t want him to ever see and she felt vulnerable and laid bare; her innermost thoughts and feelings exposed to him. She nervously played with her braid, trying to formulate an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much, but would still satisfy his query. Daenerys sighed, knowing she couldn’t tell him anything other than the truth, he simply knew her too well for that. “When you saved my life at the night club, I knew that you would do anything to protect me. When you carried me, it was like I weighed nothing at all. So, yes, in a modern sorta way, you are my knight in shining armour.”

He noticed she couldn’t meet his eyes when she answered him and he found her sudden nervousness around him charming. A strange warmth spread through his chest when she said he was _her_ knight in shining armour and he inhaled deeply, thinking it would make it go away. But it didn’t, it not only lingered but seemed to unfurl even further. He felt like he had glimpsed into her mind for a moment and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips at the way she thought of him. Jorah felt he should say something to fill the stillness between them, but he realized he couldn’t say what he was thinking. He would be stepping too far, crossing a line. _No_ , he thought, _I can’t say it even if I want to_.

“Well, it’s more like ‘ _tarnished’_ really.”

His self-deprecating joke broke the tension slightly and she finally met his eyes and found laughter evident in them.  She looked at him, her head tilted to the side as if in concentration, “I don’t agree.”

And there it was again, that crackling energy between them, only much stronger than it had been before. In his mind’s eye, an image of her wrapped up in his arms sharing a tender kiss flashed and disappeared. He blinked; the only sound in the room was their breathing. He could tell she felt it too, her lips parted slowly, her eyes holding his. She finally looked away and he let go of the breath he had been holding.

“Can I have this?”

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “What?”

Jorah heard the shock in her voice and he wondered if he had gone too far. “Never mind, this is yours. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“You really want it?” Her brows pulled together skeptically. “I mean, it’s not really that fantastic or anything.”

“What are you talking about? I think it’s great.”

She could see he was telling her the truth; it was clear in his eyes. She felt her cheeks grow hot, “Well, if you really want it, you can have it.”

He smiled at her and it reached all the way to his eyes. He handed her the book, “You know, all the great artists sign their work.”

She rolled her eyes, “Don’t push your luck.”

He knew she was joking with him as she took it and set it on the table. She picked up a fine point black pen and signed her name with a flourish in the corner of the large page before carefully removing it.

The way Jorah held it in his hands; it was as if it was a prized possession, the gentleness of his expression made her think it meant something great to him. But then again, it held a deeper meaning for her too, a physical manifestation of a dream she had the night after he’d saved her. In it, she was the Queen, her enemies encroaching from all sides, but never getting close, her brave knight the shield that kept her safe. She counted herself extremely lucky he hadn’t found her other drawing, the one she thankfully kept folded at the bottom of her dresser drawer. He was her knight in that one too, only he wasn’t defending her. No, in that illustration, he had her wrapped in his strong arms, holding her tight to his body, their lips locked in a passionate kiss.

“Thank you, Daenerys.”

His words drew her from her thoughts and she smiled, “You’re welcome.”

“I almost forgot why I came up here in the first place. Lunch is ready.”

“Okay, I’ll be right down.”

They shared one last look before he left. She leaned back against the table and ran her hands through her hair. She had no idea what she was going to do with her attraction to him, mostly because she knew it likely wouldn’t go anywhere. Jorah was an honorable man and he took his job seriously, which likely meant he had strict rules and ideas about getting involved with clients. And yet, the small voice inside her kept reminding her that some of Jorah’s looks and actions weren’t exactly that of a friend and bodyguard. It was of a man in love, albeit one who was struggling not to show how he felt. But he had seen her sketchbooks and she chewed at her lip with the realization that he now knew how she felt about him. She groaned in frustration, pushed her thoughts aside and went to join him downstairs.

***

               Jorah had been inside Aerys’ study before briefly on a few occasions, but had never really looked with any great detail. But with everything that had happened, it was time to see if he could get some answers. A photograph on the wall caught his attention and he made a mental note to ask Daenerys about it later. He opened drawers, searching for documents, felt under furniture, looking for false panels or things that had been taped underneath in secrecy. Scanning the bookshelf for anything that looked out of place, he passed a section, cool air brushing against his skin. Taking a step back, he felt it again and lifted his hand, running it down a barely noticeable seam between the shelving units. He felt the slight rush of air and his eyes darted over the shelves looking for a lever or some other mechanism to open this secret panel. His search stopped on a dragon’s head, glossy black and carved from obsidian. He pulled it forward. _Click._ Then it slipped back to its original position and he heard the soft whoosh of rapidly drawn-in air as the panel slid open to reveal a hidden room. Though small, it was well-appointed, with a panel of computer screens along one wall and an escape hatch in the bottom left corner of the other. There was a small folding bed tucked under a small table, and on top, a box filled with what appeared to be emergency supplies. Once Jorah crossed the threshold, the room filled with soft light and the screens came to life, each one with a different view of some portion of the inside or outside of the house. This was a safe room in the event of something gone wrong, but Jorah doubted it was bomb proof as he knocked on the walls and found they weren’t thick concrete, rather it was constructed of baffling, a soundproofing-type of material. He exited the room and pulled the lever to close the panel. He went to the study door, opened it and called to Daenerys to join him. She came around the corner a moment later and he gestured her to follow him. He stood in front of the bookcase again, “Do you feel that cool air?”

               She looked puzzled and shook her head. He took hold of her hand and held it in front of the seam. She met his eyes, “What is that?”

               He placed her hand on the dragon’s head and guided it forward. Her jaw dropped as the room was revealed. He lifted his hand from hers and walked inside. She followed after, surveying her surroundings with a bit of shock, “I had no idea this was even here.”

               Jorah was surprised too. “Your father never told you about this?”

               “No, he never said a word.”

               That confused him, why have a safe room if not to protect your entire family? A sick thought came to him that Aerys only cared for his own safety and therefore kept this a secret from everyone. Jorah’s protective nature didn’t want to believe that was true, he could never see himself doing something like that.

               “Daenerys, I want you to listen to me. What I am about to tell you is not done to scare you; I simply want you to be prepared for every eventuality.” She listened intently, “In the event that something happens to me and I am incapacitated for whatever reason, I want you to come here and hide. Bring your mobile with you; it would appear that this room is wired for service. These computers will give you a 360-degree view of the house, allowing you to see who is here and where they are at all times. In case the power is cut, these run on a backup battery, just like the perimeter surveillance system I installed.”

               She worried her lip, “Could something really happen to you? I mean, you’re a soldier with years of training and experience, nothing-”

               “I have learned that _everything_ is possible in my line of work. You have to assume that there is someone is who faster, smarter and/or stronger out there just waiting for you to make the one small mistake that will allow them to strike.”

               She let that sink in, the idea that the man standing in front of her could make a wrong move and be taken down. Anxiety crept into her mind and Jorah noticed the subtle shift in her gaze.

               “I didn’t show you this or tell you these things to frighten you. I just want you to be safe. It is my job to protect you, and if for some reason I can’t, I want you to have a battle plan. Think of it as a counter strike, a way of defeating the enemy that only you know. This gives you the advantage, something all military personal prize in a tense situation.”

               She half-smiled. “But I’m not in the military.”

               He chuckled. “I think I can make an exception in this case.”

               She looked around the room and sighed, “Okay, if something happens and I can’t escape, I’ll come here and wait.”

               Before they could leave the study, Jorah stopped at the photograph on the wall. “Who is this?”

               “Oh, that’s my father’s business partner,” she answered, coming to stand beside him.

               _Business partner? Aerys never mentioned anyone._

               “He didn’t mention him, huh? Why am I not surprised?”

               Had he said his thought out loud? No, it must have been the look of confusion on his face. “Why?”

               “They had a falling out about a year ago.”

               “Do you know what it was about?”

               She shook her head, “My father wasn’t happy about it though, whatever it was.”

               Filing that information away, he searched the picture for other clues. The location didn’t look familiar, the grounds reminding him of a farm. “Where was this picture taken?”

               “At a horse boarding facility called King’s Landing.”

               “The business partner owned this?” She nodded, “Have you been there?”

               “Once, when I was five or six. My father had to bring me along, he couldn’t find a babysitter I guess.” She huffed a sarcastic laugh, “It wasn’t horrible. I got to ride one of his horses that day.”

               Jorah had to smile at that. “What was its name?”

               “Silver,” she said wistfully. “She was a beautiful white mare. I remember begging my father for weeks afterward for a horse just like her.” Her smile fell, “I never got one.” Daenerys shook her head to clear it of those bad memories, “Have you ever ridden?”

               “When I was younger. I think the last time was right before I went off to the Academy.”

               “So, it’s been a long time then,” she teased.

               He looked at her with mock offense, “I’m not that old.” They smiled at one another before his expression turned serious, “What’s his name?”

               “I don’t know,” she shrugged, “He always went by his nickname: The Spider.”

               The alias sounded vaguely familiar, but then again, there were so many men who prized their anonymity in that sort of business. Jorah was surprised Aerys didn’t have one. Or perhaps he did and just hadn’t discovered it in his research. Either way, he held on to this new information, fairly sure it would prove useful at a later date.

               “Why are there no pictures of you or the rest of your family,” he asked, gesturing at the other frames, all containing photographs of palatial estates, rare automobiles, and fancy yachts.

               “My father isn’t the sentimental type. He values what his money buys him more than people.”

               There was such sadness in her voice, such a sense of loss for what could have been. The relationship Jorah had with his father had never been very sentimental either, but at least he knew that Jeor cared about him. “Do you have any pictures?

               “A few.”

               She didn’t seem to want to talk about it further, what with the way her arms wrapped around her body protectively, her face turning away from his, so he dropped the subject. Perhaps at a later date, he would try asking her again.

***

               It was a week later while he was reading by the fire one night that Daenerys came to him. She was carrying a well-worn leather-bound journal against her chest, “Do you still want to see those pictures?”

               He closed his book and set it on the small coffee table. “Of course.”

               She sat down next to him, resting the journal in her lap and opening the cover with care. The first picture was a young man and Aerys, toasting to something, champagne flutes in their raised hands. There was a family resemblance, but that was all. Where Aerys’ face was all hard angles and wild eyes, the son’s softer, his eyes gentler. _He must have taken more after his mother_. “That’s Rhaegar.”

               “Your father didn’t mention him.”

               “I’m sure he didn’t mention a lot of things. Viserys said he was different from my father: kinder, less prone to fits of anger. And that meant that he was somehow weaker. He was apparently very good at the family business, however, so that’s what kept my father and him together. That’s all I really know about him; he was murdered before I was born.”

               “I’m sorry.” Jorah wondered if he had lived, Daenerys’ life might have been a bit better having an older brother around who seemed more caring.

               The next picture was one of her and a man so much like Aerys he could have been his younger twin. He had his arm draped over Daenerys’ shoulder, and while he had an arrogant smile plastered on his face, she didn’t look all that happy. She visibly stiffened, “That’s Viserys.”

               She had never spoken much about him, only superficial comments and a few vague details, and he had always wondered why. Looking at him he didn’t really have to anymore. If he looked like Aerys, it only stood to reason that his personality would match. “He was a few years older than me and just like our father: mercurial with an awful temper.”

               “I read he died under mysterious circumstances.”

               She stared for a long while at the picture, as if she was debating something in her head. “They weren’t mysterious.”

               Jorah was confused. “So, it was a lie?”

               “No. They were just mysterious to everyone else.” There was something in her eyes, a profound hurt tinged with anger and betrayal. “Viserys was always trying to prove himself, make my father see that he could take over the business in the future. My brother was reckless with money though, constantly throwing it around: hosting lavish parties, buying fancy clothes and fast cars. It came to a point when my father didn’t want to fund his playtime anymore, so he cut him off.” She scoffed, “You would have thought the world was going to end. He went into a rage, breaking things, screaming about ‘waking the dragon’. Once he had calmed down, he realized that he needed to do something big to get back in my father’s good graces. He went searching for someone to make a deal with. He found Khal Drogo.”

               Jorah could have sworn he saw her shiver. The name sounded somewhat familiar to him, it was likely something he heard in passing or in a conversation with Barristan. But to Daenerys, it meant something disturbing, if the blank way she stared straight ahead was any indication.

               “Drogo was looking to sell a huge cache of arms and Viserys saw that as his perfect opportunity, but he had no capital and no access to my father’s bank accounts. So, he sold the only thing he could.”

               Jorah’s stomach turned, an icy chill creeping down his spine. _Gods._ He didn’t need her to say it because he already knew somehow what was coming.

               “I never actually met him, but apparently, Drogo approved of my picture.”

               “Your brother sold you as…” He couldn’t say it, the words trapped behind the bile rising in his throat. He swallowed roughly against it.

               “A bride,” she supplied, watching the color come back a bit to Jorah’s face. “The wedding was set for a month later. No matter what I said or threatened him with, he didn’t listen or didn’t care. Probably both. Thing was, Viserys had no patience. He went back to Drogo two weeks later, demanding the arms before the ceremony. Apparently, Drogo wasn’t the kind of bloke who took kindly to that sort of thing. Viserys never came home.” She closed the book with a sharp snap, “They found his body in his car, a gold bullet in his brain.”

               “You never told your father the reason behind his murder?”

               “No. If I had, he would have likely let the deal continue.”

               She said it with such a quiet certainty that, based on everything he knew and had learned about Aerys, Jorah didn’t doubt it was true. He stared at her for a long while in silence. With such a tortured past, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been just like her father. But she had risen above, made a conscious decision to be different. And she was far more resilient than he had ever given her credit for. “I know it must have been hard for you to tell me all of this. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.” He rested his hand over hers on the sofa between them, “You are so much stronger than you know.”

               “Sometimes I don’t feel that way.”

               “At times I don’t either.” She looked at him then, a hurt very much like her own reflected back her. “We all have our weaknesses.”

               “What are yours,” she whispered.

               “I’m stubborn. I let my heart make decisions for me.”

               “That’s not a bad thing.”

               “It can be,” he said knowingly.

               “I was always told my weakness was my gentle heart.”

               Jorah turned her hand over in his, twining their fingers. “That is not a weakness, Daenerys. That is a great strength. Hold on to it and don’t change for anyone.”

               And, for the first time, she truly felt that it wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited about the next chapter :D I think all of you will be too!


	14. It's Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas and Daenerys decides to throw a party. Will the festive season and a yuletide tradition bring Jorah and Daenerys closer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter a day early because I have no patience AND it's a special one.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Sweet fluff
> 
> I'll be your man  
> I'll understand  
> Do my best to take good care of you  
> Yes I will  
> You'll be my queen  
> I'll be your king  
> And I'll be your lover, too  
> Yes, I will  
> Derry down green  
> Color of my dream  
> A dream that's daily coming true  
> I'll tell ya  
> When day is through  
> I will come to you  
> And tell you of your many charms  
> And you'll look at me  
> With eyes that see  
> And melt into each other's arms  
> And so I come  
> To be the one  
> Who's always standing next to you  
> Reach out for me  
> So I can be  
> The one who's always reaching out for you  
> Yes I will, yes I will  
> You'll be my queen  
> I'll be your king  
> And I'll be your lover, too.  
> [ _I'll Be Your Lover, Too_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SDhUAVKNVg) by Van Morrison

A few weeks passed and it seemed as though they had blinked for it was now just seven days until Christmas. Daenerys had insisted that they go buy a Christmas tree, since it had been many years since she had last had one.  They went very early one morning to the nearest tree lot where she chose a 3-metre-tall Nordmann Fir because she loved its silvery-blue needles and lovely fragrance. Jorah had not had any reason to celebrate Christmas for many years; in fact, he had not had a tree or decorated a house since childhood. But her enthusiasm was infectious and he loved seeing her smile and laugh with joy, so he soon found himself in the spirit of the season too.

               Jorah offered to help her when, even with a stepstool, she couldn’t reach the top of the tree to hang the remaining white and silver baubles or to position the star. She also struggled to secure the strings of white fairy lights around entryways and from the exposed beams of the ceiling. Jorah came to her rescue with a ladder for that. Daenerys decided that since her father was not going to be home for Christmas yet again, she was going to have a party. A small, simple affair with a few close friends. And when she wasn’t decorating with him, Daenerys was hard at work confirming rental reservations and setting the menu, Jorah watching as she handled the planning with ease, the Queen of her domain. She asked his opinion a few times, but he just smiled and told her to do what made her happy, saying he had never done anything like this and would only be a hindrance to her if he even tried to help. Although, he had to admit being in a house decorated like this, the feeling of the crisp winter air against his cheeks did remind him of his home, a distant happy memory. The only thing missing was the snow. He had moved so much after joining the military that he had never stayed in one place long enough to consider it truly home. But, being around her, watching her excitement at the rapidly approaching holiday, he couldn’t deny the feeling that maybe _she_ could be home for him now. He had not felt this strongly, and surely never as deeply, for someone in his entire life and he found the feeling calmed both his heart and spirit. Even if he shouldn’t be feeling this way, he couldn’t help it.

               The day of the party arrived and Jorah was walking toward the sitting room when he heard a loud, irritated grumble, followed by the clatter of hangers, coming from her room, the door half open. He knocked once and waited until he heard her frustrated “come in” from the other side before he entered.

               The room looked like a whirlwind had torn through it; clothes strewn across the floor and bed. Daenerys stood at her open closet, picking through the hung-up garments and making disgusted noises with each passing one.

               “Everything all right” Jorah asked, unable to keep the chuckle out of his voice.

She turned and leveled him with a glare before her face fell and she said with exasperation, “I have nothing to wear.”

               Looking around the room, he mumbled to himself, “I doubt that.”

               “Help me, please?”

               “You can’t be serious?” But one look at her earnest gaze told him she really was. He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I’m not a fashion expert, Daenerys.”

               “But you’re a man and men know what looks good on a woman.”

               He exhaled and walked to the closet, surveying the myriad clothing choices before him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something green and sparkly partially hidden by a black pea coat. “What about that,” he suggested, pointing to it.

“Oh, I had forgotten about that dress.”

               She reached in and pulled it off the rack. Jorah swallowed hard when he saw it fully: a strapless sequined emerald mini dress. _Gods_ , he thought, _I wish I hadn’t noticed that_. He already thought she was beautiful; he didn’t even want to think about how stunning she would look in _that_ dress.

               She turned to him smiling, “Turn around so I can put it on. I want your opinion.”

               _Seven Hells._ He would probably regret it, but he did as she asked. He could hear the rustling of clothes behind him, then the rasp of a zipper.

               “Okay, what do you think?”

               He turned and was wholly unprepared for the sight of her. The dress clung to every gentle curve, from what little the dress covered of her toned, shapely thighs to the soft swells of her breasts. The color set off her pale skin flawlessly, and Jorah had been right, he’d never seen a woman more beautiful in his entire life.

               When she saw him just staring at her, it made her grin. _I made him speechless_ ; she thought triumphantly, _that has to be a good sign_. “ _So_ …you like it?” She waited a beat before continuing, her hands running over the sides of the dress, “I mean, to _really_ wear a dress like this, you need to have bigger breasts. You know, to really fill-”

               Jorah found his voice suddenly, “Trust me, Daenerys,” his eyes meeting and holding her gaze, “You look beautiful.”

               Their eyes remained locked for a heartbeat longer before he cleared his throat and told her he would be in the kitchen if she needed anything else, then he was striding from the room. Daenerys exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding once he was gone, her hand resting over her racing heart. The look in his eyes and the sound of his voice left no doubt in her mind: Jorah was attracted to her. The knowledge sent a thrill through her, a sensation that had a giggle escaping her lips. No man had ever looked at her that way before and she had worn clothes much like these on dates in the past. She leaned back against the open closet door and waited for her heart to calm before she chose a pair of strappy black heels to complete the outfit and set to figuring out a hairstyle for the party.

               She didn’t have time to consider it for long before she heard a gasp coming from the hallway.

               “Miss Daenerys, you look beautiful!”

               “Thanks, Lisette,” she beamed, sitting down at her vanity and unclipping her still slightly damp tresses.

               “Mr. Mormont will no be able to resist you,” Lisette remarked, walking into the room.

               Daenerys’ face felt hot as she remembered the look in Jorah’s eyes, as if she was the beautiful woman in the world. “Jorah picked this out for me.”

               Between the flush on the young woman’s cheeks and what she had just told her, Lisette smirked, her eyebrow quirking, “Jorah picked it out for you?”

               “No—no, not like that,” Daenerys blinked rapidly, realizing the insinuation that had been made from her comment. “He saw it in the closet when I asked for his help in picking something to wear.”

               Lisette didn’t say anything, but Daenerys could tell by the look in her eyes that she knew there was something between her and Jorah that neither wanted to acknowledge. Walking in on them sleeping in the same bed had likely fueled her imagination further.

               “I do your hair for the party,” the maid said finally, saving them both from the awkward silence.

               Lisette picked up the comb and began working it through, dividing portions of the hair into sections to make six thin braids, half on each side. She weaved three into a bigger braid, then did the same to the others before connecting them into an even larger one down the back.

               “That looks amazing,” Daenerys exclaimed when she was done, turning this way and that to see the style from all angles in the hand mirror the maid held up behind her. “Thank you.”

               The older woman smiled, meeting her eyes in the vanity’s reflection. “Christmas is magical time, where everything is possible. Go for what you want, have no regret.”

               Daenerys considered the sage advice; Lisette was right after all. Take the bull by the horns, just do it, carpe diem, and all of the other lines meant to spur people into action. There were so many things in her life she wished she had done but didn’t, either by her own decision or by another’s. She couldn’t control other people, but she could control her own choices. Perhaps she would go for what she wanted. Yet the thought alone had her playing with her nails, nervous butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

               All she could manage was a somewhat hesitant smile, one that had Lisette patting her shoulder encouragingly before she left the room, leaving Daenerys alone to think.

***

After all the guests had arrived and the food was served and drinks started flowing, Jorah disappeared briefly to do a sweep of the house. Only after he was certain it was secure did he finally join the party, staying along the periphery so as not to interrupt her fun, nursing a glass of Coca-Cola so that he could stay sharp. He watched her laugh with Missandei, something the woman whispered to her made her blush and he wondered what she had said. Then she was talking to Doreah and Irri, the women seemingly in discussion about their clothing and shoes, Doreah extremely interested in Daenerys’ intricate half-up hairstyle. Then Jorah saw him: Daario, her ex-boyfriend, the man Daenerys had said she was done with. _What in the Seven Hells is he doing here?_ He went to Daenerys and kissed her cheek in greeting, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. He averted his eyes, trying to focus on anything but them, jealousy rising in his chest. She seemed to be acting polite for the sake of the situation, but Jorah had been wrong in reading the signals of their breakup, so he thought that perhaps what had once been off-again was now sadly back on-again.

               Daario had left Daenerys to get more food and another drink.  Missandei walked over and said, “You know he wants you back, right?

               “Yeah, I know.” Daenerys sighed, watching him standing at the bar. She played with the mini umbrella in her nearly empty glass before she replied, “But it’s not him I want.”

               Her friend smiled knowingly but said nothing.

               Both of the women looked over to where Jorah stood, suit jacket unbuttoned, his hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks. To the untrained eye, one would think he was relaxed. But Daenerys knew better, he was actually very alert to his surroundings, ready to spring into action at the least provocation. He reminded her just then of that famous suave secret agent from the movies: sophisticated, intelligent, and devastatingly handsome. He wore his usual dark suit and white shirt, but his tie was forest green, the simple silver tie bar securing it glinting in the light when he shifted his weight to his other leg. _That color suits him so well_ , she thought, realizing only now that it nearly matched the color of her dress. Doreah appeared next to her and spoke so only Daenerys could hear, “He looks hot in that tie, am I right? Makes you wanna grab it and pull him in for a kiss.” She wolf-whistled lowly and Daenerys couldn’t stop the blush from blooming across her cheeks. _Gods, she read my mind_. Sometimes she really did hate when her friend was right.  

The tempo of the music changed, her friend Tyrion serving as DJ for the evening, wine glass in hand. He chose something slow, people pairing off to dance on the makeshift dance floor that had once been the sitting room. A glance to the far wall told her Jorah saw it too, his eyes moving slowly over the couples until they fell on her.

“Love comes in at the eyes,” Doreah remarked, grinning over the rim of her margarita glass.

“It is known,” Irri added, her small smile matching the one on Missandei’s face.

Combined with what Lisette had told her earlier, Daenerys knew it was now or never. She had to make a decision. If she didn’t, she knew she would regret it for the rest of her days. An almost melancholy smile graced Jorah’s lips, and with that look, she made up her mind, crossing the room toward him.

               “Having a good time?”

               “Yes,” he replied, swirling the contents of his glass, “It’s been a long time since I last went to a Christmas party. But the real question is are you having a good time, Daenerys?”

               “I am, but do you know what would make it even better?”

               “What’s that?”

               “If you’d dance with me.”

               He blinked at her, clearly taken aback. “Are you quite sure? I haven’t danced in _years._ You’re apt to end up with crushed toes. _”_

“I’ll take my chances,” she teased, holding out her hand.

               With only a second’s hesitation, he took it, setting his drink down on a nearby table before leading her out to the edge of the dancing couples.

               Jorah drew her to him, his hand splaying across the middle of her back, the pad of his thumb whispering at the skin just above the top of her dress, the other clasping hers gently and drawing it to his chest.

The track changed, another slow song, one he recognized instantly, “Gods, this is from before I was born.”

               “I’ve always liked this song.” His eyebrows rose in surprise, “What? I think it’s sweet.”

               He smiled softly at her, their proximity emphasizing the difference in their heights despite her towering heels. It had been some time since he had last danced with a woman, but he found a rhythm so easily with her it made him question why he had even hesitated in the first place.

               “Donc un ours peut danser après tout.”

_A bear_ , he mused, _how does she know about that?_ Jorah chuckled. “Même un ours peut danser avec une belle femme.” He watched the blush creep over her cheeks, her eyes darting away in shyness before he added, “This is hardly dancing, it’s more like _swaying_.”

               With a short shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she said, “Whatever you want to call it, it’s just what I was looking for.”

               _Me too_. The words almost left his lips, but he held back, trying to keep things light between them.

               “The color of your tie really suits you.”

               _So much for that idea_ , he thought. “Thank you. Black is not festive and I look horrid in red.”

                She giggled. “Well, I’ve never seen you in red, so I don’t know if that’s true.”

               “And you will never find out if it is.”

The heat of his hand had begun to seep through the fabric of her dress, the faint brush of his thumb made her lips part. Her eyes met his and she was held captive. Emotions melded and shifted in his warm, gentle gaze, and in that moment, he was not her bodyguard, he was just Jorah. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo in her chest and she hoped the way she felt wasn’t so obvious to him. But when his eyes flicked to her lips, she knew his mind was on the same page as hers.

               The thumping bass of the next song came to his rescue and he reluctantly stepped back, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

               “Thanks, Jorah,” she said cheerfully, though her eyes held the shadow of disappointment.

               He gave her a small but sincere smile and a quiet ‘of course’ before he retrieved his glass and went to stand by the wall again, his hand shifting nervously in his pocket.

***

_Bloody hells_ , he thought, _what’s the matter with me?_ Only one dance and he was eager for another. She’d flirted with him; of that he was certain. It had been some time since a woman had last done that, but he still recognized it easily enough. He’d slipped up in that moment, their closeness and the look in her eyes had him transfixed. He’d flirted back, the color rising on her cheeks at his honest comment about her beauty. Had no one ever told her that before? He was surprised and slightly saddened by that, Daenerys deserved a man who would tell her just how special, important and beautiful she was. In his heart, he knew he could be that man, and after their dance, he had the distinct feeling that perhaps she wanted him to be.

Jorah watched her mill about, laughing, talking and dancing with her friends. Occasionally she would glance his way, a look in her eyes he recognized all too well. _Attraction._ While he couldn’t deny the magnetism, the intense pull he had started to feel developing in earnest between them over the last several weeks, doubts began to creep into his happy thoughts. As her bodyguard, he was hired to protect, not to fall in love. But the weight of eight months in her presence 24/7 had almost completely worn down his resolve to keep things professional. He was head over heels for her and it took every ounce of strength he had not to tell her exactly how he felt, not to act on the feelings he held for her. And given the way this night had gone to this point, he now wondered if his Christmas gift was a step too far. It had not been overly expensive, but the implication of it would surely make her question his feelings toward her. Or perhaps he was over-thinking things and she would see it as nothing more than what it was: a gift.

The night wore on, and around midnight, people started to leave. Soon Missandei and Daario were the last ones left.  Something Daenerys’ friend told her about her gift as they said their goodbyes made her laugh despite the fact that she looked confused. With a parting hug, only Daario remained. From the shadows, Jorah watched the younger man’s overt advances and how they made her uncomfortable: the way he spoke to her and how he tried to touch her bare upper arm. All Jorah wanted to do was grab the strutting peacock by his throat and growl at him to get out. Some men don’t know how to take a hint, but at this point, Daenerys was being anything but subtle. She had clearly had enough of Daario’s arrogance and was not interested in rekindling their brief, seemingly unfulfilling, relationship. She ducked her head when he tried to kiss her and inside Jorah was cheering for her. She deserved to be courted, not ineptly seduced. With a look of shocked confusion as to why she hadn’t fallen into his arms, Daario handed her a wrapped box and left without a backward glance. Locking the door behind him, Daenerys leaned back against it with a heavy sigh, her shoulders relaxing visibly in relief. Using this opportunity, Jorah slipped down the hallway to his room to fetch her gift.

***

               Daenerys didn’t even bother to open Daario’s present, leaving it on her desk when she went back to her room to get Jorah’s.

She found him sitting at the dining table, a small, neatly wrapped box sitting in front of him. He turned when he heard her approaching, noticing the similarly sized parcel she carried in her hand. She sat down in the chair opposite him and smiled, placing the gift on the table in front of him. “Happy Christmas, Jorah.”

It had been a long time since he had received a present of any kind, seeing as he had no immediate family. He slid his gift over to her, “Ladies first. Happy Christmas, Daenerys.”

She unwrapped it slowly, careful not to damage the beautiful red and green paper. Underneath it was a white box, and when she lifted the lid, she gasped. Resting on a velvet square was a silver necklace, and hanging from it, a simply designed bear paw charm. The symbolism was not lost on her, Jorah was nicknamed ‘The Bear’ after all. Wearing this necklace would mean she carried him with her, close to her heart. And she was more than okay with that.

“Jorah, it’s beautiful.” She removed the necklace from the box and undid the catch. “Will you help me put it on?”

He took the delicate jewelry from her and they stood, she moved her hair so he could fasten it, his callused fingers brushing the skin on the back of her neck. She inhaled audibly, her body instantly responding to the inadvertent touch. She felt his hands freeze, _he heard that,_ before he cleared his throat and stepped back. She gazed down at the pendant resting against her skin, her finger tracing the outline of the bear’s paw before she turned to him, his eyes centering on the charm briefly before meeting her own.  

“I love this. Thank you.” They sat and she leaned her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hand, “Now it’s your turn.”

He unwrapped the box and opened the lid to find silver cuff links; he looked closer and noticed they were in the shape of bears. She giggled. “I read my father’s file about you. It said they called you ‘The Bear’.”

He was touched by her gift; he had not received something so personal before. “They’re lovely. Thank you, Daenerys.”

He placed the gift in his pocket before he rose from the table to head back to his room. Just as he was walking under the arched entryway of the kitchen, he heard her softly say, “Jorah, wait.” He stopped and faced her; her eyes fixated at the top of the arch. He looked up and saw what held her gaze: mistletoe.

She stood and walked toward him, joining him under it. “It’s tradition,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.

He looked at her, waiting for her to make the first move. He wanted her to be sure that she wanted this, even if it was only a kiss shared in tradition. She rested her hands on his chest and rose slightly on tip toe to press her lips softly against his. The first touch was like a spark, the sharp inhalation of breath through her nose told him she felt it too. She pulled back a bit to search his eyes, for what he didn’t know, before she gripped the lapels of his jacket to pull him to her again. There was nothing soft about this kiss; her lips moved over his with a sure intensity, months of time together condensed into this singular moment. Lost in the moment, Jorah wrapped his arm around her waist to bring her closer, his other hand cupping her jaw then sliding along it to cradle the back of her head, her soft sound of pleasure resonating high in the back of her throat. One hand released the grip on his jacket to thread through his hair, his curls softer than she had imagined, a sharp contrast to the pleasant rasp of his beard on her face. Her other arm wound around his shoulders, her body arching into his embrace. He surrounded her in his warm strength, his unmistakable scent enveloping her. She couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t get close enough to him and it appeared neither could he. Jorah kissed her with equal fervor now, his tongue caressing over her bottom lip before hers darted out to meet his, the taste of her nearly overwhelming. Of all the times he had thought of kissing her, this was unlike anything his mind could have come up with. It was passionate yet tender and he knew instantly that this one kiss would never be enough to satisfy the craving she had engendered in him with that first tentative press of her soft, full lips.

She pulled back first, resting her forehead against his as their rapid breathes mingled. She exhaled a soft ‘wow’, her mind trying to process what had just happened between them. She knew what they had just shared was no ordinary kiss, a feeling welled in her that she had never felt before, a bloom of heat spreading through her chest. She was sure something had shifted between them. The way he looked at her, as if he wanted to lean in and reclaim her lips, made her heart skip against her ribs. The rush and intensity of the emotions scared her a bit too, no kiss had ever made her feel that way. It awakened a yearning in her, a yearning for his body that nearly rivaled her desire for another kiss. She leaned back, her fingers tracing over where his lips had just been, her wide eyes looking back at him.

“Jorah, I…” But she couldn’t finish her thought; instead, she left him standing there in a mad dash of green sequins. All he could do was watch her retreating form, thinking about how badly he had just fucked things up between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it FINALLY happened! What's next for our pair? Stay tuned!


	15. Dancing Around Their Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Christmas night, Jorah and Daenerys can't seem to express the way they feel about each other. Their dreams, however, are another matter entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After last week's chapter ended rather abruptly, I felt like I should do something to make it better. Sooo, here's a 5k+ one for ya'll to enjoy. 
> 
> A great bear-sized 'Thank You" to my readers for all the fantastic comments! Please know that despite the fact that my life is a bit hectic right now and I haven't been able to respond as I used to, they mean a lot to me :D 
> 
> Chapter warnings: A few swear words, angst, erotic fantasizing

Jorah sat the counter, as he did most mornings, reading the paper and drinking coffee. He was on his second cup, given the time of day. She was up earlier than usual; the previous night had made sleep difficult to come by.

               “Good morning, Daenerys.”

               She hadn’t even entered the kitchen yet and he already knew she was there. She shook her head, his ability still amazed her sometimes. “Morning, Jorah.”

               She took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup from the half-full carafe. The creamer was already waiting for her on the counter as well as a freshly stocked sugar bowl and a spoon. He knew her so well. He took his black, but she hated it that way. Heaping two healthy spoonfuls of the sweetener in, she stirred it a few times before adding the cream, watching the dark liquid turn a light tan. He’d teased her once, asking if she wanted some coffee with that cream, to which she’d stuck out her tongue at him and he’d chuckled. The memory would have made her smile if her mind wasn’t preoccupied. Grabbing a blueberry scone from the nearby plate, she sat down adjacent to him, picking at the pastry nervously. _Come on, Daenerys, you can do this. Out with it already._

               “Jorah?” He looked up from his reading, his cup poised just at his lips, “Can we talk?”

               He sat up straighter, setting his drinkware down slowly. “Of course.”

               “It’s…about last night.” His expression turned guarded. “The kiss under the mistletoe. We can just forget it ever happened…if you want.”

               _Forget it ever happened_. He couldn’t, in fact, his dream last night had been a continuation of that amazing kiss and it had been rather… _embarrassing_ …that morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had woken from a dream in that state. And Daenerys wanted to forget it? He didn’t believe that for a second and her eyes confirmed that for him. She appeared to be struggling with the aftermath of it too. She probably thought _he_ wanted to forget it and for them to go back to the friendly, albeit professional, relationship they had. But it was the hesitantly added ‘if you want’ that tripped him up. She was trying to gauge his feelings about it, and quite frankly, he was torn. The rational part of his mind told him to agree with her and move on. The other, ruled by his heart, made him want to tell Daenerys that kissing her had been a singular experience that he would never forget. He decided an answer somewhere in between was the best course of action. “As you said last night, it’s a tradition.”

“Right. Exactly,” she said, her smile tight and forced. “So, we’re good then?”

               “Of course.”

               “Good.” Her voice was a bit too cheerful; she was clearly covering up her true feelings. She hopped off the high bar chair, “I’ll be upstairs painting.”

               She was gone before he could answer back, her steaming cup and barely picked-at scone left forgotten. Jorah sat back in his chair, his hand running through his hair. Just after he’d told her it was a tradition, there had been a flash of hurt in her eyes. Jorah knew how much the kiss had meant to her, otherwise, that emotion wouldn’t have been there. Now she thought it meant nothing to him, but she couldn’t have been more wrong.

***

               Jorah didn’t see Daenerys for the rest of the day. Either she was avoiding him or he was avoiding her, it didn’t matter. They were both avoiding the same thing: admitting their feelings. As Jorah sat wrapping his hands for his workout, he thought back to the night before. The kiss had been everything he had dreamed and imagined it would be and so much more. The feel of her in his arms, her skin so warm she was like fire, her soft, full lips, the tantalizing tease of her tongue. He stood suddenly, tightening the white cloth strap more than was necessary, the sharp stab of pain through his palm enough to get his mind back in the present. He pulled on his training gloves, and having already stretched, set to his workout. He started with one-minute warm-up rounds, then built up to three-minute ones. The strenuousness of the bouts was enough to keep his thoughts from drifting, but once he stopped, he no longer had a distraction. Sweat rolled down his spine and dripped from his face, his muscles burning just this side of aching. He took a break for water and to towel off most of the perspiration. And as he sat there, his breathing and heart rate slowly returning to a more reasonable pace, the one emotion he had been suppressing all day finally bubbled to the surface. Regret. It wasn’t guilt at kissing her, he didn’t regret that in the slightest. It was regret at how he had handled the morning after. Clearly, Daenerys had wanted to know how he truly felt about it and he had lied to her. Well, not an outright lie, more like a vague answer, an evasion of the truth. He wasn’t even sure why he had done it. He loved her and he was fairly certain the feeling was reciprocated, so why was he still holding back? The excuse of professionalism wasn’t even working on his rational mind anymore, it merely laughed every time he tried to offer it up as an explanation. Was he worried that if he let her know how he felt that his ability to protect her would be diminished? Jorah had witnessed men in love with their clients slip up, causing the woman in their care to suffer some sort of injury. He would never be able to live with himself if he knew a lapse in his thinking had brought harm to Daenerys, even if it was just a scratch. Jorah was still beating himself up for that night at the club in those quiet moments when he was alone and brooding. He had been a second too late and that man had touched her. He couldn’t even fathom what another mistake might result in.

Whereas maintaining his objectivity was the main reason, a smaller one, one he didn’t dare give voice to, lay buried deep down. Jorah feared a broken heart. He had felt it once, and while it had been difficult and took a while to get over, he knew that if things between Daenerys and him went south, he would never recover from that heartbreak. His feelings for her were deeper and stronger than anything he had ever felt for his ex-wife or any other woman in his past for that matter. Daenerys was etched into his bones and inscribed on his heart and she had him, body and soul forever, and he knew he would never love another woman after her. And yet the soldier in him, the part he knew he could never really leave behind, always scoffed at his pragmatism. Jorah had taken risks for years, ran through heavy fire to rescue injured comrades, took part in special ops missions deep into enemy territory. _And here you are afraid to tell her you love her_ , his mind chided. He got out of his chair and walked over to the heavy bag, slamming his right fist against the leather, then his left. What came after was a flurry of punches, each louder and seemingly harder than the last. He didn’t stop until he was gasping, his hands wrapping around the chains securing the apparatus to the ceiling, relying on it to hold him up. He rested his forehead against it, eyes closed, catching his breath. It was in that unguarded moment, his body worn down by exertion, that their kiss returned. And he couldn’t fight the memory anymore. Broken and defeated, he let himself relive it. Every breath, every sound, every sensation. Daenerys ignited a passion in him, made him feel strong but simultaneously weak. Gods, he wanted to kiss her again, to feel the press of her body against his and hear her make that sweet sound of pleasure once more. His thoughts had started to go down a troubling road, so he removed his gloves and wraps and left the gym to return to his room for a much-need shower. He had to get his mind onto other things. And quick.     

***

               Jorah sat by the sitting room window reading, enjoying the stillness of the late evening. His body was tired from his earlier workout, but his mind wasn’t quite ready to shut down. His mobile broke up the quiet, vibrating on the small glass side table beside his now-cold half-drunk mug of tea. He glanced at his watch, the hour far too late for phone calls. Unless it was…

“Barristan,” Jorah answered, his voice low, “Do you ever sleep?”

“You’re one to talk.”

There was a tone to his words that had Jorah setting his book aside as he sat up straighter. “What is it?”

“The leader of the Scarlet Scimitar was found dead last month. The faction is in disarray, they’ve dispersed. There’s something else.” He paused, “The man in the alleyway, there is no record of him anywhere. No fingerprints, no dental records, no passport, not even a bloody birth certificate. Seven Hells, it’s like he never even existed. SVR, CIA, Mossad…all had nothing as well.”

_Shite_. Jorah wondered for a second why his friend was telling him all this. But then it hit him like a freight train. He got up from the leather armchair and started pacing, “The Scarlet Scimitar isn’t the one after Daenerys anymore.”

“Exactly.”

It all made horrible sense now. The ‘little bird’ comment, the escalating, more aggressive attempts on Daenerys’ life. Jorah ran his hand through his hair. “Do you know anything about who is trying to hurt her?”

“No,” Barristan sighed, “The men from the nightclub are proving to be ghosts too.” However, he was anything but resigned. “We’re still monitoring flight manifests and all digital exchanges and we are in constant communication with global intelligence organizations. If, and when, I know something, I’ll contact you.”

               “You’re putting your job on the line for us.”

“Not really. Besides, I know what Daenerys means to you.”

Jorah’s musings from earlier returned. “Selmy, I--”

“Oh, come off it. You only call me ‘Selmy’ when I’ve hit a nerve. It was written all over your voice the last time we spoke.”

Jorah shook his head, his fingers scuffing his beard. He came to a stop in front of the window, staring out into the darkness. “I shouldn’t, it’s--”

“Interesting choice of words.”

_I didn’t say can’t._ ‘Shouldn’t’ left the door open, left his heart open to his feelings. But it already was, wide open and sworn only to Daenerys. “Go to bed, Selmy.”

“Goodnight, Jorah,” Barristan said with a chuckle.

Jorah hung up, resting his phone against his chin, deep in thought. A new threat, this one woefully lacking in available information. This needled the soldier in him, the man who had formulated battle strategies from exhaustively gathered intelligence. He had nothing to go on this time, save for his instincts. And those were nearly always spot on. He heaved a heavy sigh; it was too late at night for this sort of mental gymnastics. “Hello, Daenerys.”

“You always know when I’m there.” He turned to find her standing in the entryway, playing with her nails. Despite her light-hearted comment, she seemed worried. “Was that your friend?”

 “Yes.” He gestured for her to join him on the couch.

Her brows drew together more as she walked over and sat down beside him. “It’s about me, isn’t it?” Jorah nodded. “What did he say?”

Would telling her help ease her worries? _Not likely._ But she deserved to know, it was her life in the crosshairs after all. “The man from the alleyway and the men from the nightclub are connected.”

“Well, I figured that was true.”

“But they are not connected to the man from Harrod’s or the art gallery.”

She seemed to be processing this new information, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. Then she stood suddenly and walked to the window, her arms wrapping around herself. She stared into the darkened garden; her voice quiet. “I’ve spent my entire adult life living in fear. Not just at what’s out there, but what’s in here too. My brother, my father. There have been times when I just wanna leave.” Jorah rose and joined her, her eyes holding his in the glass’s reflection. She shook her head, “And yet I don’t. He’s my father, the only family I have left. It’s like I can’t decide what’s worse: the devil I know or the devil I don’t. Even if I did leave, where would I go? Who knows how many people he’s cheated and or betrayed? I’d be…” She couldn’t finish the thought: _all alone_.

“Family is complicated. It is never black or white. The reasons why you stay don’t have to be explained. Because they can’t, not completely anyway.”

As always, his advice made perfect sense. She turned to him unexpectedly, “If I asked you to take me away from here, would you?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his voice, only calm resolution.

Daenerys searched his face, nearly disbelieving what he had just said, then realizing he did, in fact, mean it. Jorah was so sure, so ready to drop everything and take her wherever she wanted to go. But faced with his surprising resolve, faced with the possibility of freedom and a new life with Jorah by her side, Daenerys felt her nerves get the better of her. Even if she did go to another country, or even across the ocean, someone could still find her.

“Why?”

Jorah’s face turned to the window again, “The only place that has ever been home to me was Mormont Manor on Bear Island. I left it to go to the Academy, and then, I was a wanderer. Nowhere was home after that, merely temporary places. What little family I have left, I’ve been dead to them for years. I have no children, no significant other. Few friends. I have nothing keeping me here.” Daenerys found him looking at her again, a familiar softness in his gaze, “Except you.”

Daenerys wanted to say something, but the words were trapped in her throat, her chest tight. She was captive in his eyes again, but for a completely different reason than last night. This man, a man who cared deeply about her, who put himself between her and those who wished to hurt her, was willing to leave his life behind and start a new one wherever she wanted. And a part of her that she had only recently accepted was there thought ‘ _except you’_ meant much more than the words implied. His eyes surely seemed to be saying it, those incredibly blue gentle eyes. If he had told her that before they’d kissed, its meaning would not have been anything more than his desire to simply help her. She glanced away, needing a respite from the intensity of his gaze before looking back. Finally, she found her voice, “Maybe you could finally find home too, Jorah.”

_I already have._ “Perhaps,” he answered with a small smile.

A familiar feeling swept over her, standing there facing him, the air around them charged but still. Gods, she wanted to kiss him again, to both find herself in the warm strength of his arms and lose herself in the sweetness of his mouth. Her eyes dropped to his lips, gently parted, silently calling to her. And when she leaned toward him, he didn’t stop her. They were a heartbeat apart when a loud crash broke the spell, Jorah turning, his arm reaching back to keep her behind him. He paused, listening, trying to ascertain where the sound had come from. _To my left, outside._ He looked over his shoulder, “Go hide.”

She didn’t need him to whisper it twice. Daenerys ran for the safe room, pulling the dragon’s head to open the hidden door. Once inside, it closed behind her. She couldn’t hear anything in there, the silence deafening and oppressive. The monitors flickered to life, her eyes searching for Jorah. There, at the French doors leading to the deck. Gun drawn and raised, he turned the handle and moved outside with slow, methodical steps, his head turning this way and that, scanning his surroundings. He disappeared from view, but reappeared on the next screen where he stopped, crouching down to examine a knocked over potted plant. The detail of the video wasn’t perfect, so she couldn’t make out exactly what he saw, but it appeared to be nothing concerning. Her body slumped against the metal countertop in relief, her head hanging with a sigh. On the screen, Jorah stood, holstering his weapon and making his way back inside. Agonizing minutes passed before the door slid open, “So what was it?”

“A cat.”

“ _What?_ You’re kidding, right?”

“It left paw prints in the dirt,” a smile curling the corner of his lips.

Daenerys let out a soft laugh at the mental image of the feline’s tracks. “That must have been a huge cat. Well, thank gods it wasn’t something else.”

Jorah made a noise of agreement, then stood aside so she could exit the room. They walked in silence to the hallway leading to their bedrooms.

“Daenerys.” She turned to him, pride in his smiling eyes, “You did well.”

“Thanks, I learned from the best.” A grin broke across his face, one she mirrored. “Goodnight, Jorah.”

“Goodnight, Daenerys.”

He waited until she got into her room and closed the door before he moved off down to his. Once inside, he sat down heavily on his bed, his hands running through his hair. They had almost kissed again. And he hadn't even tried to stop her. Because deep down, even if he couldn't admit it, he didn’t want to. He craved that intoxicating rush of sensation, that heady mix of the physical and the emotional with her. But a chilling thought gripped him: what if they had been kissing, would he have heard that crash and reacted as quickly as he had? He didn’t want to think about it further, instead, he focused on getting ready for bed.

***

The next few days were torture for Daenerys. For many reasons. First, it was merely being in Jorah’s presence. She tried to put on a brave face and not show how much his dismissal of their kiss as mere tradition had hurt her. To be honest, she didn’t know what she had expected him to say or do. Did she expect him to stand up, round the counter and pull her into his arms for another mind-blowing kiss? Well, yes, but that was beside the point. She supposed his reaction had been intended to let her down gently, to not make her feel silly or stupid, but also not to encourage it happening again. She wondered if he regretted it. She didn’t, not in the slightest. In fact, she wished she’d done it sooner. She knew Jorah took his job seriously, his professionalism was one of his many attractive features. It wasn’t until she called Missandei and had a long talk about Christmas night and the ensuing morning that Daenerys figured out perhaps Jorah was afraid of a broken heart. Did he really think she would just kiss him and then not want anything more to do with him romantically? Could he be thinking she would use him? Maybe her feelings for him weren’t as obvious as she had thought they were.

Troubling thoughts aside, Daenerys valued Jorah for the listening ear he offered, letting her talk about whatever she wanted, only offering comments when it was important or she specifically asked. She liked that he made her laugh with his occasional dry wit, made her think with some exceedingly profound or wise statement. But mostly she liked that he made her feel something positive, not just about herself, but about life in general. So often her father had never cared for her one way or another, her brother had been much the same. They never gently encouraged, never offered subtle praise, never reversed her negative thought process into something more constructive. Jorah was a pragmatist, after all, a perfect foil for her impulsivity.

Then there were her dreams. Jorah starred in them nearly every night and they were a world apart from the ones she had of him in the past. She had dreamt of him saving her life, protecting her from faceless dark shadows. Now his hands would roam over her bare skin, his lips finding all of her secret places. Tender and sensual, erotic yet gentle, her fantasy Jorah never left her unsatisfied. She would wake up, her dream world giving way to reality. But the sensations would linger, unfulfilled need heavy and slick between her legs. The first morning she had been able to brush it off, throwing herself into her painting to distract herself. The second had been more difficult to ignore, so she had taken a cold shower to quell her desire. It had only left her chilled and extremely frustrated. She had been snappy the rest of the day, and when Jorah had asked if she was all right, she had told him she was just tired. He seemed to accept it, though his eyes remained skeptical.

It was the third morning when she had finally had enough. It was then that she decided to take care of her needs. Locking both the door to her room and the bathroom, she lit candles and drew a bath. She nearly sighed as she slipped into the heated water up to her neck, her head resting on a rolled-up towel. Most would say the temperature was way too hot, but it was perfect for her. It unwound her tense muscles but did little for the tension low in her belly. It had been some time since she had last done this, so she didn’t rush, instead, closing her eyes and breathing slow. She imagined Jorah was there with her, her body nestled between his legs, her back resting against his broad chest. He worshipped her neck, the shell of her ear, her shoulder, with soft kisses, some no more than a brush of his lips and breath. His beard scraped against her skin, gooseflesh rising at the tickling rasp. Her head lulled back onto his strong shoulder, offering herself to him for more. His fingers glided over her skin, following the lines of her clavicles to dip into the hollow between them, then down her chest to cup and massage her breasts, teasing her nipples into hard, aching points. All the while, he was murmuring things to her, things she couldn’t make out, but her body knew what they meant, reacting to it like kindling to a spark. Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice that slid down her spine and coalesced in her center, each beat of her heart echoing there. His hand slowly drifted down to settle between her legs, his digits seeking, finding, _lingering_. That was all she needed. She stifled the soft cry of her release against the back of her hand, her fingers slowing to draw the last tendrils of sensation from her body. She sagged against the warm porcelain, limp and sated beneath the water. And she stayed there until it grew cold before getting out and toweling off. She dressed comfortably in a pair of harem-style pants and an off the shoulder dolman top, drawing her hair up onto her head in a messy bun.

Jorah was still in the kitchen when she bounced in, grinning and greeting him happily. He returned it, though not nearly with the same force of sentiment. He watched her bustle around, preparing her own coffee and setting some wheat bread on to toast. She leaned back against the counter, looking out into the garden through the tall windows. Jorah tried not to stare, but there was _something_ about her face that kept drawing his attention. A soft flush across her delicate high cheekbones, a brightness in her eyes. His gaze dropped to her shoulder; the smooth pale roundness exposed by the wide neckline of her blouse. He’d never seen her like this before and the wheels in his mind started turning with possibilities. A new idea for some art? A good night’s rest? An…but he stopped that train of thought before it could even leave the station. If he considered that option, he’d be hard-pressed to keep it from bouncing around in his head and driving him crazy.

“I’m gonna go paint, Jorah.”

Her airy voice cut through his thoughts and he sobered just in time to offer her a nod of understanding before she flashed him a wide smile and bounded off again.

_That was it, a new idea for some art_ , he concluded, lifting his mug to his lips for a long drink.

***

Later, long after dinner and Daenerys had gone to bed, Jorah went to his room to get his swim trunks. He hadn’t made use of the indoor pool yet, though he didn’t know why. He had always been a strong swimmer and he enjoyed the otherworldly stillness being beneath the surface provided. The house was mostly dark and silent as he padded barefoot across the cool marble to the French doors, opening them to the faint gurgling of the pool filter before closing them behind him. He didn’t want to wake Daenerys after all. He dimmed the overhead lights but kept the underwater ones on. He drew his t-shirt over his head and draped it, along with his towel, over the back of the teak chaise. He stretched a bit before slipping into the perfectly heated water, letting it completely cover him before rising again, slicking his hair back with his hands. He waded out until his feet no longer touched the bottom, tilting back until he floated, eyes closed, mind drifting away.

He thought about a lot of things: how he had arrived at this point, the events that had momentarily caused a rift between them, how they had reconciled, and the upheaval brought about by Aerys’ _career choice_. He admired her fortitude, how she hadn’t let circumstance change her for the worse. He admired a great many things about her: her intelligence, her artistic ability, her gentle heart, her sarcastic sense of humor, and how she made him feel completely at ease around her. But it had been Christmas night when he had slipped up, letting his heart control his thoughts. She’d been absolutely stunning that night. Her dress, like the verdant feathers of a tropical bird, set off her skin perfectly. Like the finest porcelain, he’d felt its softness beneath his callused thumb, the warmth radiating from her body pressed close to his. It had been an innocent dance, something two friends could share, but the look in her glittering amethyst eyes had said otherwise. And he had felt it too. _Attraction_. The unmistakable pull of biology and instinct. An unconscious longing. And it hadn’t disappeared, he’d just pushed it away, compartmentalized it as he had in the past with other difficult emotions. And their kiss, by the gods, that kiss. Jorah had never had one like it. It started out gentle, but ended up passionate and hungry, leaving him eager for another. A lifetime of Daenerys’ kisses would never be enough for him.

               He’d dreamt about her since then. Usually, he didn’t dream at all, or if he did, they were horrific repeats from his past. He had been wholly unprepared, waking up to find himself hard and throbbing, the echo of her soft moan reverberating through his head. The first time it happened, he had been disgusted with himself. How could he think of her that way? But, as he reasoned, it was his subconscious and he had no real control over what happened in his sleep. He’d ignored it and it eventually went away. The second time took a nearly exhausting workout, sweating it out had been just the ticket. The third, well, he couldn’t fight it anymore and he gave in to weakness. His dreams of her were never really concrete things, certainly not full-fledged stories with plot and dialogue. At first, they had been nebulous though, flashes of bare skin and snippets of sound. The curve of her breast, the roundness of her hip that gave way to smooth expanse of thigh. Her eyes, needy and a little wild. The full, blushing pout of her lips. Breathy sighs. Pleading whimpers.

               His last dream, however…oh, it rivaled even the most erotic waking fantasy he’d ever had. She was greedy for him, and while it was still mostly disjointed, there was a distinct beginning, middle, and end. And the climax had been mesmerizing. Well, hers had been. The beautiful arch of her body, her ecstatic face, her desperate, feminine cry of pleasure. Gods that sound. Those last two were what stuck with him the longest. All he had to do was close his eyes and he saw her, heard her. It took very little for him to find his release. He lay there afterward panting and disgusted with himself: for thinking of her that way, not to mention, giving in to his lustful thoughts.

His eyes snapped open, the odd distorted sound of water lapping against stone reaching his ears. He heaved a sigh and slipped beneath the surface, starting his swim, each turn of his arms carried him further and further away from his traitorous thoughts, centering him in the moment.

Daenerys padded into the kitchen, reaching for the handle of the freezer door. She had gone to bed earlier than usual, but sleep eluded her, her mind unable to shut off. Light out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, the sound of water splashing growing louder as she walked to the windows of the pool room. Her jaw dropped open and she quickly looked behind her, left then right, before hiding behind the black curtain, only her face visible from the shadows. Jorah moved almost dream-like under the heated water, his arms propelling his lean form smoothly. _A merman_ , she thought, _just without a tail_. She nearly giggled. He did a swimmer’s turn off the wall and broke the surface, drawing a breath through his parted lips before slipping below again.

Approaching the submerged stairs, he went vertical, and with each step, more of his body was bared to her devouring gaze. A faint wavering haze of steam rose into the cooler surrounding air and tiny rivulets followed a haphazard path over his skin. She envied that water, her fingers wanting to feel the heat dissipate from him. The hair on his torso was matted to his skin, making it appear darker than she had glimpsed it to be. His nipples were puckered like small pebbles and she wanted to touch them, tease them, kiss them. She felt herself blush at the thought, _would he let her do something like that?_

               It was very voyeuristic of her to be watching him like this, but she knew he did it too. Well, not _exactly_ like this. There were times, when out of the corner of her eye, she saw him gazing at her, inscrutable in his perusal. Now, as she drew deeper into the shadows by the window, watching the play of his muscles under his skin as he toweled off, her gaze lingering hungrily on the bulge in his swim trunks, shame wasn’t even close to what she felt. It was need that made her heart race, a compulsion to feel him against her again that sent a flush of heat down her spine to throb between her legs. She pictured them together in her mind’s eye, Jorah above her on the cushioned chaise, his wet, heated skin sliding against her own as his lips worshipped her arched neck, her hands grasping at his shoulders, his hips rolling intimately between her parted thighs.

“Daenerys?”

That voice wasn’t in her head, her eyes blinking back into focus from her reverie. She’d been caught and she silently cursed her loss of awareness.

Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils shifting back to normal in wide eyes, and breath drawn quick through parted lips. Jorah had been around enough women in his life to recognize the tell-tale signs of arousal. He stood barely an arm’s length from her, and in the low light, he felt that familiar crackling energy between them. Since she had kissed him, his thoughts would drift back to that night under the mistletoe, as they did now. It would be so easy for him to take her in his arms and kiss her again, to give in to what they both obviously wanted. He knew he couldn’t, giving in to his needs, even if they were hers too, would be stepping over a line. One they had already blurred once. To deny their attraction was no small feat for him and he rallied every ounce of resolve contained in him to steer these feelings into safer waters.

“Was it your nightmare?”

His soft, concerned voice broke the silence and she finally met and held his gaze. “No, I, uh,” a deeply drawn breath centered her thoughts and speech, “just couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I. Do you want to watch some TV?”

She appreciated the fact that he didn’t call her out for staring or mention anything about the feelings she was sure were evident in her eyes. “Sure.”

They took their usual places on the sofa and she flipped on the TV, searching through the channel guide for something they could agree on. Eventually, they settled on an old comedy film, the humor lightening the mood and helping them forget all about their thoughts on one another. At least for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, things will heat up a bit ;)


	16. Teach Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys asks Jorah to teach her how to play poker...and pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I switch from past to present tense for a portion of this chapter...I hope it makes sense.
> 
> Chapter warnings: explicit erotic fantasy (However, I don't think that warrants a rating change as it's only happening in their heads.)

Daenerys had been painting all morning and came downstairs only because her stomach had finally protested at its lack of sustenance. She found Jorah in the kitchen making a sandwich and he looked up at the sound of her softly padding feet and then her voice, “That looks really good.”

“I’ll make you one if you like.”

She smiled. “Yes, please.”

A well-worn deck of cards sat on the glass dining table, laid out in a game of what looked like solitaire. She studied it, trying to understand how to play. He set her plate on the table across from his seat, “Just something to pass the time.”

She sat down and took a bite. She had discovered not long after he’d arrived that he made an excellent sandwich; she wasn’t sure what it was about it that made it so good. She swallowed, “I never really understood that game. Do you know any others?”

He had just finished a bite of his own. “Sure. Blackjack, gin, poker. You pick up a lot of these games passing the time waiting for your battalion’s orders.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You know how to play poker?” He nodded. “Can you teach me?”

That certainly caught him off guard. “You want to learn how to play poker?”

“Yeah, why not? Sounds like fun.”

“All right.”

He proceeded to lay out cards in groups he called ‘hands’. He showed her what hands were better than others and described the rules for Texas Hold’Em.She would ask an occasional question, but for the most part, she picked it up fairly quickly. There was something about the curious intelligence in her eyes that he found attractive, but he didn’t dwell on it. Because if he did, he had a feeling he would not be able to concentrate.

They played a few hands to make sure she had the hang of it before he went to the cupboard and took out a box of toothpicks. She looked at him strangely and he told her it was for betting purposes. She laughed at her unfamiliarity with the game as he handed her a small handful and set aside the same for himself. He dealt the cards and asked if she wanted to call or raise his bet or fold, depending on the cards she had. She bit her lip and raised his bet; the realization that she had really good cards was now fairly obvious. He dealt the flop, bet again and so did she. Now, came the turn, followed by more betting and then it was the river, the last community card to be dealt. They made their last bets and Jorah noticed her subtle tell, her eyebrow rose ever so slightly when she looked at her cards. She most certainly did not have a poker face and he smiled inwardly. They both flipped over their hole cards and he was shocked to discover that she had four of a kind to his full house. She had won.

She gazed at him expectantly, “So, did I win?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yes.” He pushed the large pile of toothpicks toward her as she clapped her hands in joy. “Beginner’s luck. Let’s have another go.”

He collected the cards and shuffled them. They went on playing for some time, and while she did win a few more hands, Daenerys discovered that Jorah was quite the poker player. He had an unreadable face; even his usually expressive eyes were impassive. They took a break to get something to drink as he filled a bowl with popcorn before they went right back to it. She enjoyed playing with him, their easy teasing banter made time fly. They barely noticed the maid come in and start to make dinner until the smell of cooking chicken filled the air. They broke their game to eat yet they continued to talk and laugh.

“So, what other games do you know how to play?”

“Darts, pool, ping pong. That’s all I can really think of off the top of my head.”

She grinned. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play pool.”

“You know there is a pool table in the room off the studio, right?”

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, but my father never let me in there. He said it was the ‘men only’ room.”

“Well, your father isn’t here now, is he?”

The smile spread slowly across her face, “No, he’s not.”

***

He entered the room first, flipping the switch for both the ambient lighting which came from the modern-styled sconces near the ceiling and the stained-glass fixture situated above the billiard table. Daenerys gaped at the décor, at its polished, dark hardwood floors and sumptuous leather bar chairs. The pool table in the center of the room was gorgeous with its rich chestnut finish and ornately carved legs.Jorah walked over to the wall rack and selected two pool cues. He rolled them on the green slate and watched, he appeared to be checking them for something but she didn’t know what. He handed her one before he racked the balls over a marker on the table. Jorah removed his suit jacket and tie, draping them over the back of a chair before he undid the first two buttons of his shirt, a rather simple act that she found mysteriously arousing. He lined up the cue ball with the top point of the triangle of alternating striped and solid balls. He leaned over the edge of the table slightly, sighting down the cue, his gaze focused as his left index finger curved over the stick, his thumb resting on the table underneath it. Drawing it back with his right hand, he struck the cue ball with a sure hard stroke, the balls scattering with a clacking noise. She watched a solid yellow one roll into a side pocket.

He walked around the table and attempted his next shot, but missed. He came to stand next to her. “You are the striped ones because I sunk a solid.” He pointed to a ball nearby, situated halfway to a corner pocket. “We’ll start with this one for you since it’s a fairly easy shot to make. Just follow what I did and you’ll do fine.”

“Oh, that’s easy for you to say,” she teased, leaning over the table and trying to copy what he had done.

Jorah tried his best not to stare, but he found it nearly impossible, what with the way her bottom was on enticing display in her tight black jeans. He glanced away; willing his eyes to focus instead on her hand as she lined up her shot and hit the ball with what he thought was too soft a stroke. He was pleasantly surprised to see it teeter on the edge before falling in. She jumped up and cheered, then broke into the cutest, not to mention, sexiest victory dance he had ever seen.

“Nice shot,” he said, hitting her hand when she held it out for a high-five, “But don’t get ahead of yourself; you’ve still got six more balls to sink.”

She missed her next shot, so it was his turn again. He surveyed the lay of the table, looking for his next best shot. He made that and the next one too, but missed the third, the cue ball hitting the wrong side of the red ball, sending it ricocheting in the opposite direction of what he intended. Her next play was pretty dismal, the striped green hitting off the corner of the pocket. She stood in awe as he sank his next three, leaving far too many banded ones on the table for her liking.

He was about to take his winning shot when she leaned on the edge of the table at the opposite end. Jorah made the mistake of glancing up to find her staring at his hand, her bottom lip firmly between her teeth. There was no way she was doing it on purpose to distract him, but she was succeeding beautifully. Now his mind was filled with questions about what she could possibly be thinking in relation to said extremity, and much to his dismay, they were all naughty. _Come on, man, stiff upper lip and all that_ , he thought, taking a cleansing breath before making his final shot. All that was left was the eight ball and he was facing a difficult play, the black sphere trapped behind two of hers. He paced slowly around the table, hoping for a better angle, but found they were all equally bad.

Daenerys watched Jorah deep in concentration, his fingers running idly through his hair just above his ear, his eyes entirely focused on the task at hand. This game was far more arousing than any film or sports program on the telly made it out to be. Watching the cue slide through Jorah’s gently closed hand made her think of only dirty things, her body reacting to them in the most frustrating, but wonderous, way. Everything he seemed to do was turning her on and he was totally oblivious to it too. He pursed his lips as he bent to line up his shot, his arm guiding his cue in an assured stroke. But it turned out to be too hard, the disappointing soft thunk of ball on felt meant he had squandered his chance to win. However, as she watched the white ball come to a stop, his miss had left her with nothing as well. Her closest ball was hiding behind his near the corner pocket and there was no direct line to it for her. 

She flashed him a look that begged _help me please_ and he came to stand next to her.

“You’re going to have to bank it off the head rail and hit only yours or you’ll scratch.”

“Thanks for telling me, oh wise pool master, that’s not the help I was hoping for.”

He chuckled and stepped behind her, “All right.” Setting his stick against the table, he wrapped his hand around hers on the thicker end of the cue, “Lean over like you are going to take a shot.”

She did and the room suddenly felt twenty degrees hotter as he leaned over her, his chest a hair’s breadth from her back. His scent, clean and slightly woodsy, enfolded her and she drew a deep breath of it. His proximity usually made her feel safe, but that was so not the case right now. Her body was traitorous, fueling her mind into conjuring up all sorts of inappropriate thoughts. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she struggled to keep her breathing in check lest he discover the effect he had on her.

Jorah was well aware of how close she was and he arched his groin slightly to keep it from pressing right against the swell of her backside. The scent of her, her body so close yet so far was driving him mad. There was a tension in her frame, a hint of tremor in her shallow breathes that assured him he wasn’t alone in the desire she provoked in him. He felt a familiar twitch in his manhood and tried to think of anything but the gorgeous woman bent over beneath him. Had he not been her bodyguard, the pool cue would have been long forgotten, his arms holding her close as he kissed her with all of the fiery hunger coursing through his veins. He closed his eyes briefly and tried not to breathe in too deeply at her intoxicating scent.

Guiding her other hand around the thinner end, he rested his index finger over hers and curled it over the cue stick. He used only the barest hint of pressure to keep it there as he said in a low voice, his heated breath ghosting over her ear, “This shot requires the right balance of hard and soft. Too hard and the cue ball will kiss off. Too soft and the ball won’t make it to the pocket.”

_Gods help me_ , she nearly muttered out loud, trying frantically to focus on what knowledge he was trying to impart. The tiny muscles under her skin tightened, bringing gooseflesh prickling to the surface. She was failing miserably, however, the innocence of his words was totally lost on her. His voice was like molten dark chocolate, rich and sinful, flowing over her sensitized skin and making her center flush with blazing wet heat. She pressed her thighs together, hoping the friction would ease some of the prodigious ache he had created between her legs. It didn’t.

He chuckled softly, the whisper of warm breath making gooseflesh rise again, “Relax, Daenerys, let me guide your hand.”

_Oh, Seven Hells_. She almost whimpered, biting her lip hard to stifle it. The phrase was innocuous, but that didn’t mean that her brain wasn’t twisting it around that very moment into something else. She exhaled softly and felt herself go pliant against him, willing herself to complete the shot. His hand tensed over hers as he directed the stick, a gentle thunk the only sound when the two met. She watched the ball bank off the short rail and connect with the striped one, the force causing it roll straight into the pocket. 

She squealed softly in triumph and turned her head to look at him, his usually clear blue irises were stormy. Emotions swirled in them and their gazes locked, their surroundings fading away. His eyes darted to her lips before flicking back to her violet ones. Something had shifted in them in that brief instant, as if he was pleading with her to end some secret torment within him, an echo she felt within herself. In the space of one breath, she turned in his arms and gripped his shirt in her hands, crashing her lips against his. The kiss was fierce and hungry, his lips moving over hers, taking the control she relinquished when she pulled him against her body and moaned into his mouth. The hot rasping slip-slide of their tongues urged him on and he forgot all of the trappings of his employ. He was just a man and she was just a woman and he took what she gave him without compunction. Everything about her body against his screamed that she wanted him and heavens help if anything stopped him now. He grasped the hollows where the backs of her thighs met her bottom and lifted her onto the edge of the table, spreading her legs a bit as he did so he could stand between them. He trapped her squeak of surprise in his mouth, only breaking the kiss to take a quick breath before he was on her lips again. She tasted of need, _need for him_ , and his heart thundered in his chest at her desire. She clutched so tightly to his shirt he thought for sure she would rend it from his torso in her eagerness to feel the heated skin underneath. She arched into him, whimpering, her hands moving into his hair, legs drawing tight around his waist, winding around the backs of his thighs, locking him to her. He had no intention of going anywhere. His lips slid from hers along her jaw and neck to mouth at her pulse, her body writhing as he licked at her salty skin. She threw her head back, a silent incitement to worship the arch of her throat. He needed no command, verbal or otherwise, from her; his desire to make her body sing for him was all the motivation he needed. Using his tall frame as leverage, she ground herself intimately on his prominent hardness.

“Jorah...”

Her throaty moan of his name thrust him head-long back into reality. The gravity of his current actions brought his hands to her upper arms and he pushed himself away, taking a few steps back. Her legs dangled from the table while she stared at him with wide dazed eyes, her kiss-swollen lips parted on a pant. He closed his eyes, running his hands through his hair, trying his damnedest to control his breathing too. Turning to the side, he hung his head and she reached out a hand, resting it softly on his shoulder. His wide eyes snapped to hers, a blend of passion and remorse lingering there. “Why did you-”

“We can’t do this.”

He said it almost to himself as much as he did to her, the battle to convince himself that stopping was the right thing to do waged in his eyes. Jorah walked swiftly from the room, leaving her still perched on the edge of the table, utterly stunned at what had just transpired between them. Her whole body thrummed with residual arousal and her feet felt for the floor. With shaky legs, she looked for support and found it, leaning heavily against the table; the remaining moisture from his tongue still damp on her skin. The unabridged version of what they’d just done played on an endless loop in her mind, the highlights making her sex clench and her eyes slip shut. If their first kiss had awakened a desire in her, their second…Daenerys had felt it _everywhere_. And she needed _more_. It was several long minutes before she had the faculty of her limbs back, her mind made up that she had to talk to him about what had just happened.

Going first to his room and finding it vacant, she went to the study next, which was also empty. The sound of soft, rhythmic pounding drifted from down the hall, the door to the home gym half closed at the end. A shaft of light cut through the darkness and she approached quietly at first, the sound of punching getting louder. Not wanting to interrupt his workout or whatever he was doing, she waited in the dark. A low grunt preceded each impact, the sound of it extraordinarily sexual, feeding the need that still thrummed through her veins. Peeking around the door, her breath caught at the sight that greeted her and all thoughts of conversation were chased away. On numerous occasions, she had watched Jorah punch the heavy bag, but this time was nothing like the others. He had changed. Or rather… _stripped down_. With wide eyes, she took in his wiry form: his bare chest, the golden-red hairs that covered his pectorals and stomach springy and glinting in the light. The lean muscles beneath his skin flexing and releasing as he landed each punch with brutal precision, the slight ripple of flesh with each impact made her ache to touch him. His core was tight as he hunched in his boxer’s stance, moving and weaving against his unseen opponent. A line of hair disappeared into the jeans that hung low on his waist and her mouth went dry at the thought of what happiness lay at the end of that trail. Even through his trousers, his manhood had been blatantly obvious and it left no doubt in her mind that he could pleasure her as none of her other partners had ever been able to. His legs propelled him with grace and fluidity, his taut backside made her say a short prayer of thanks to whatever gods above had sculpted that magnificence. Sweat dotted his brow from exertion, his gaze hard and concentrated as he landed a flurry of jabs and right crosses, ducking and dipping, his shoulders following suit with his movements. With no gloves to protect his hands this time, only white cloth wraps, she wondered if whatever pain he inflicted on himself was some sort of punishment for the liberties he had taken with her not long ago. The memory of it flooded her psyche, driving her hand between her legs to press at the sensations coalescing, _pulsing_ in her center. She bit her lip to stifle her soft sound of pleasure, but she was shocked to realize she felt no shame in doing this with him such a short distance away. On the contrary, her body was screaming for release, and while she was sure it would take only a few deft flicks of her slick fingers to throw her head-long off the cliff into bliss, the noise she always made at the height of it would be hard to hide. With one parting look to sear the image of his gorgeous body into her consciousness for inspiration later, she crept quietly to her room. Once there, she closed the door and locked it. She undressed on her way to the bed, lying back on the cool sheets, only to close her eyes and slip into the fantasy in her mind.

There, she is bold, pushing open the door to the gym and approaching him without a shred of timidity. His eyes, alight with fire for her, roam over her body, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath ratchets her desire for him ever higher. Grabbing him by the waistband of his jeans, she pulls him toward her until there is no space between them. _I need you, Jorah_ , her plea spurring him into action, grabbing and lifting her into his arms, the sweat of his skin slick under her wandering hands. He carries her to the padded weight bench and lays her down; his body poised above her as he undresses her slowly, her needy whine the only consent he requires. With each inch of skin he reveals, his mouth is insistent against her, worshiping her body like a goddess as he murmurs all manner of erotic things to her. Soon, she is naked and basking in the heat of his passion. He drops to his knees and draws her legs over his shoulders, his eyes never leaving hers as his tongue snakes through her folds to the fount of her arousal, a rumbling curse falling from his lips at the taste of her finally in his mouth. He coaxes her pleasure from her body like a virtuoso draws sweet music from his instrument, striking just the right chord at the right moment to make her sing for him. Her body shudders and he whispers against her tender flesh the words that turn her bones to liquid: _come for me, love_. His tongue is relentless against her little jewel, each quick flick has her breathlessly chanting _don’t stop_. All too soon, ecstasy is pulsating through her entire being, her hands a death grip in his hair, unwilling to let him leave until she has had her fill. Finally, she begs him to stop and he stands, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them off. He watches her eyes fall to his cock, her tongue wetting her lips as a feral grin graces her face. She rises and he offers no resistance as she pushes him onto his back on the floor, straddling his hips and taking him into her willing body. There is no delicacy in their coupling, only raw urgency as she rides him hard and fast. He encourages her with the deep richness of his voice, labored by their pace. _I am yours, Daenerys. That’s it, love, ride me. I want to feel you let go._

She meets his eyes and brings his hand to her mouth, her teeth nipping at the fleshy part of his thumb; the cloth wrap rough against her jaw. This man beneath her, groaning as he holds back on his release to ensure she comes again for him, makes her feel powerful and she relishes in the control it gives her. Her sex flutters and the heat begins to spread, _Jorah, come with me_. The fingers of his other hand graze her breast and hardened nipple, down her belly, and with one swipe of his calloused thumb between her legs, she shatters. His name, a soft feminine cry, brings a growl from deep in his chest and he flips them, a few hard, deep thrusts is all it takes for him to spend himself in her quivering heat, their eyes locked, his body tense and arms shaking, his moan of pleasure torn from his very soul.

Daenerys clamped her hand over her mouth to muffle her sounds as her fingers slowed between her legs. She hadn’t been completely quiet, but she wasn’t ashamed of that. Never before had a fantasy made her fall apart so fast or so strongly, her being still tingling, each aftershock had her gasping. She closed her eyes, savoring the fading sensations, her breathing gradually returning to normal. Twice now she had imagined being intimate with Jorah and they had made every other fantasy she had ever had seem ho-hum. And she didn’t know how she knew it, but Daenerys was sure that the real Jorah was even better than the one in her mind. Kissing him had given her a glimpse of the kind of lover he would be: tender yet intent, gentle but passionate. She stretched against her soft, fluffy sheets, her body warm and sated, before drawing a blanket over herself, snuggling into the bed, surrendering to sleep.

Jorah, finished with what he had hoped would quell his raging desire, walked slowly back to his room. The workout had done little, barely taking the edge off. He undid his hand wraps, his mind stuck on the feel of her lips and the press of her body against his. The only way to make it go away was to take matters into his own hand, something he still felt somewhat guilty doing. As he passed the door to her room, he heard a soft whimper. He paused, thinking she might be in distress or having one of her nightmares. Reaching for the doorknob, he waited for more sounds, yet none came. Just as he took a step to leave, he heard it again. But this was no cry of distress or pain; this was a low moan of pleasure. And it, along with the knowledge that on the other side of that thin barrier Daenerys was likely touching herself and surely thinking of him, consumed him like fire. The image of her, nude and trembling in euphoria, hit him hard. He didn’t dare tarry any longer, making his way silently to his room and into the shower, the steam swirling around him as the hot water pelted his back and shoulders. He took himself in his hand, his strokes along his hard length firm and slow. He didn’t usually draw it out, but this time he wanted to savor the moment. Drawing the clear fluid that seeped from the tip over the smooth skin, he hissed as his fingers ran along that sensitized pathway underneath. And as much as he had wanted to prolong it, his body was having none of that. In his mind, images flashed of her writhing in ecstasy beneath him, then astride him in all her exquisite beauty, taking her pleasure from his willing body. Her supple curves, her tousled silver tresses, her silky pale skin. But it was her stunning violet eyes, wide and desperate as he suckled her clit between his lips and flicked it fast, giving her what she begged him for. In his fantasy, she came for him, his name on her lips, and in reality, he followed right after, his release leaving his body in thick pulses, his mouth pressed to his forearm to stifle his groan as he leaned heavily against the tile, guilt beginning to creep into his thoughts once more. He shouldn’t be thinking of her this way, using her to fulfill his baser urges. Yet…on the other side of that very wall, curled up in bed was Daenerys and she had used some vision of him to satisfy herself. Was it really so different a situation? His fantasies were not degrading, in fact, _all_ of them focused on Daenerys _receiving_ pleasure from him. In his mind, he worshiped her as she deserved. His upbringing had taught him to respect women and he knew that was the origin of his guilt: he felt like he was disrespecting her. He shook his head and rinsed off once last time before turning off the shower and drying off. Slipping on a pair of sweatpants, he crawled into bed. While his body was satiated for now, his mind started to wander. What did she fantasize about? Were they elaborate scenarios, perhaps him playing some part other than himself? She had once mentioned she dreamt of him as a Knight, saving her from those who wished to hurt her. Did she picture them in the time of castles and dragons, herself a fair and beautiful Queen who brought her knight to her bed? Or perhaps he was just Jorah, a man deeply in love who saw to her every desire wherever she wished to have him? He smiled to himself, whichever it was, it secretly made him feel proud that she envisioned him when she fulfilled her needs. And it was in that moment, just as he was drifting off to sleep, that Jorah promised himself the next time they kissed as they had in the billiard room, he wouldn't stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you spell 'Chapter 16'? Oh, that's right: T-R-O-U-B-L-E :/


	17. Proof of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys find themselves in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so remember my warning about trouble from last week? Well, here it is :/ I'm changing the rating just in case too. Also, as a treat to my wonderful readers, I'm uploading *two* chapters this week :D Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter warnings: graphic violence in which Jorah gets hurt (please don't hate me), swearing

Jorah woke with a start before the sun rose, then was unable to go back to sleep after the nightmare. He brewed a pot of coffee and took his mug to the large window overlooking the garden. A storm was brewing on the horizon of the early January sky and there was something about this time of day that he found soothing, something he needed just then to calm his jangled nerves. He took a seat in the large leather armchair, savoring a sip of the rich black brew, enjoying the stillness both inside and outside. Birds flitted between the trees, the fat dewdrops clinging to the tips of leaves, some dripping to the grass below. The only other person awake at this time was Lisette, he could hear the bustling sounds of activity drifting from deeper in the house. She would be leaving for a vacation to Greece within the hour. Daenerys was likely still in bed; she had a habit of sleeping late. Sometimes Jorah wished he did too. He had never had the luxury of peaceful rest; his waking thoughts often invading his dreams. Of late, however, his nightly visions were, for the most part, decidedly pleasant. He often dreamt of Daenerys, and while some of them were ones he would never share with anyone, others were rather domestic. Cuddling with her in front of a roaring fire, cooking a meal, walking hand in hand through the park. But last night’s dream had been a terrible nightmare. He wasn’t even sure what had brought it on. He hadn’t thought of the war, didn’t have any negative events to trigger it. It just happened. He sighed and set down his mug on the side table, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the chair. A sudden wave of weariness came over him and he let it take him away.

               When he awoke a while later, his coffee was cold and the house was quiet. He rose to empty his beverage into the sink so he could pour himself a fresh cup. Jorah had barely taken a drink before he noticed a cardboard mailing envelope resting on his laptop. A note in familiar cursive penmanship read:

_Mr. Mormont, this waiting for you at front gate when I left_

_\- Lisette_

He eyed the package suspiciously and felt it for anything amiss before pulling the tab to open it, emptying the contents into his hand.  It was a DVD in a plain white sleeve, no distinguishing marks or words on either item. He turned the envelope over in his hand, and while it was addressed to him, there was no return address or postmark. Dread began to grow in the pit of his stomach, items like these were never a positive thing. Sitting down at the counter, he opened his laptop and slipped the disc into its optical drive. It began to play immediately. At first, there was no sound, the screen showing what appeared to be a dark room, the black fabric covering the walls prevented Jorah from gathering any details about a possible location. A bright light came on from behind the camera illuminating a person slumped in a chair, a dark hood drawn over their head. Another person, wearing a balaclava and bearing an AK-47 slung across their back, came into view and yanked the hood off. _Fuck_ , Jorah thought, the mystery man’s battered face now exposed: Aerys Targaryen. Someone handed him a piece of paper, and in Pashto, told him to read it. Aerys looked around the room clearly confused, squinting into the bright light. The person who had removed his hood stood behind him, leaned over and pointed at the paper and then at the camera. Finally understanding, Aerys began to read the words printed there, but the sound kept fading in and out, so Jorah missed bits and pieces of the message. What he did catch was that Aerys had betrayed someone and that they were demanding £25 million and the rest of the arms they had purchased. Aerys continued reading, saying that whoever received this video had one week to respond or he would be beheaded. A hand reached in from off-camera to hand Aerys a newspaper and the individual behind him indicated for him to hold it up. The date on the paper read 3 January 2019. That was two days ago. Just before the video ended, recognition came over Aerys’ face, his eyes trained on someone behind the camera. He screamed in shock, “How could you do this to me?”, then the screen went black.

               Jorah ran his hands over his face before grabbing his phone to text Barristan that he had a video he needed to see and that he was emailing it to him now. He opened the email program, and through an encrypted channel, sent a message with the video attached. It was not ten minutes after he hit ‘send’ that he received a call back.

               “Jorah, when did you receive that video?”

               “It must have come this morning by courier, at least that’s what it seems, as there’s no postmark. However, the newspaper in the video is dated two days ago, or that’s what they would have us believe.”

               “I don’t have to tell you this is serious. I already passed the video on to our Middle East specialist. He’s reviewing it now for clues as to the identity of those men and where the video may have been made. I believe this is connected to the men from the alley and the night club. What little information we have been able to learn has them operating out of Kandahar, but they’ve been known to have connections to Dzalalabad as well.”

               “Let me know the moment you have something.”

               “Of course, sit tight. We have some time to figure it out.”

               Jorah sighed heavily. “Yes, five days.”

               He ended the call and set his phone on the counter. Now he was faced with a dilemma: wait to show Daenerys the video and incur her wrath for not showing it to her the moment he received it or show it to her now and help her deal with the emotions that followed. He hated to see her hurting and afraid, the incident at the night club still pained him to think about. He decided that her seeing it now was the right, if not ideal, choice.

               He went to her room, knocking on the door quietly, although he figured she wasn’t yet awake. Jorah was surprised when it opened, Daenerys standing on the other side, fully dressed for the day. Her pleasant expression shifted, “Something’s wrong.”

               “There’s something you need to see.”

               She had only seen that look on his face once before and she knew it wasn’t good. She followed him down the hallway to the kitchen. His laptop sat open on the counter, the screen displaying the window of a video player program. He rarely used the device in her presence, so she figured this was something major. He gestured to the seat and she took it as he pressed the enter key to start the video. He watched her face, and at first, she seemed confused by what she was watching, but then she gasped when the man’s face was revealed, her hand covering her mouth, “Gods.”

               She glanced up at Jorah and found his brow furrowed in concern, his gaze becoming less serious before she returned to watching the video. All the while, all she could think was that if she lost her father, she’d have nothing. No home, no money, but most importantly, she’d be all alone. The last Targaryen. Daenerys had already lost so much in her life, could she really stand to lose the only remaining member of her family?

               When it was over, she slipped from the chair to pace, her fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, her eyes welling with tears. He handed her a tissue from his pocket and she blotted her cheeks and nose. But it was no use, new tears took their place. He drew her into his embrace, her arms wrapping around him tightly, his chin resting gently on the crown of her head. He wanted to make it right for her, to save her father. But he knew that his priority was her and her father wouldn’t appreciate him running off with her in tow to save him.

               Eventually, she tilted her head back to look up at him, “We need to save him. We need to find out where he is, go there and get him.”

               “I have friends working on it right now. They are the best at what they do, and the moment they know something, they will contact me.”

               She twisted from his arms, putting distance between them. “No, once we find out where he is, _we_ need to go there. You and me, and rescue him.”

               “Daenerys, your father hired me to protect _you_. Not him. I will not take you into a situation where you may get hurt, or worse, to save him; then I would have failed you. _You_ are my priority and I will not put you in harm’s way. Let these men do their job and let me do mine.” His hands came to rest on her shoulders, trying in vain to calm her.

               She jerked back from him, her eyes wild, her words frantic and loud, “But what if they can’t find him?!”

“Daenerys-” he began, but she cut him off.

“What if they…you have to do something…”

“Daenerys, you-”

Her tone was nearly manic now, “You can’t just…why can’t you-”

               “Because I love you.”

               _What?_ It was as if the air had been sucked from the room, her heart pounding for a new reason. Her wide eyes blinked at him, completely shocked by his revelation. Or was she? She looked away, worrying her bottom lip. _He loves me_ , she thought, and deep down, on some level, she had already realized it. But hearing it spoken, so earnestly, so honestly, was something else entirely. She knew now what her heart had hoped was the truth. Jorah looked surprised, like he hadn’t meant to blurt out this monumental admission, but had and now he was unable to look her in the eye.

               An incoming call saved them from the awkward silence. Jorah put the call on speaker, so she could hear Barristan. “I’ve got some news.”

               “You’re on speaker, Daenerys is here with me.”

               “It would appear, according to intel from Kandahar, that her father is likely being held there.  My agents on the ground spotted Aerys in the city centre three days ago, leaving a two-story building with another man. They were able to follow them to another location just outside the city.”

               “So, there’s the possibility that he is in one of two locations,” Jorah asked.

               “It would appear so. Now I do have a special ops team on the ground there. You remember Davos Seaworth, right?”

               “Yes, he works contract now, I believe.”

               “Yes,” Barristan confirmed.

“Who’s on his team?”

               “Several members of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. You worked with them on one occasion during the war, didn’t you?”

               Jorah remembered that mission all too well. A midnight op in search of an associate of a man who dubbed himself ‘The Night King’. “I did, they were invaluable.”

               “Then you remember Beric, Thoros, Gendry, Tormund, and Sandor. Although, he goes by ‘The Hound’ now.  They’ve affectionately dubbed themselves ‘The Brotherhood Without Banners’.”

               “They always had a flair for the dramatic.”

               Barristan chuckled. “Now, I’ve passed on all of the pertinent information to the team there. Once they have a mission coordinated, I’ll let you know. If they are successful, they are going to want Aerys to give them information about the arms trading network. There could be far-reaching consequences to this mission. One last thing, you may want to take Daenerys to a safe location until the mission is complete. Just as a precaution, mind you.”

               “I had already decided that. We’ll be leaving shortly.” Jorah paused and exhaled, “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

               “Of course. I’ll be in touch.”

               He ended the call and turned to Daenerys. She was a thousand miles away, her eyes unblinking and slightly glazed. He put his hand over hers where it rested on the counter to get her attention. “I want you to go pa-”

               Just then, the lights in the kitchen went out. The house was eerily silent without the electric hum and Jorah knew instantly the power had been cut. That meant the security system was now no longer active and he was infinitely glad he had decided to install that perimeter breach system when he’d first arrived. It ran on a backup battery in case of a power failure and the transmitter in his pocket was vibrating. Someone was in the house and headed their way.

He whispered to her, “I want you to hide. Don’t come out, no matter what.” She nodded quickly and went to the broom closet as they had practiced in the event that getting to the safe room would be too risky. He listened for any noise, wishing right then that he had opened more of the shades covering the windows, but he’d have to make do with the muted light. He pressed his back against the wall and crept his way to the hallway, reaching for his holstered firearm. Mentally, Jorah was ready, completely in soldier mode. Fighting was a dance and he knew all its lethal steps. But, in a mirror on the opposite wall, he could see three men coming slowly toward him. They all likely had guns too and that meant he would have to take them out. There was no other way, they were after Daenerys and he couldn’t let _anything_ happen to her. Jorah decided against using his own weapon, instead, waiting until the first man got closer, and just as the barrel cleared the edge, he reached for it, tugging the man forward and slamming him against the wall. Frames rattled as Jorah wrenched the firearm free of the man’s grip and dragged his struggling body in front of his own just in time to absorb gunfire from the next intruder. Letting him fall, Jorah squeezed off two rounds, center mass, advancing as he fired. He barely had a chance to take a breath before the next attack, ducking to avoid the fist. He reached for the combat knife tucked in the man’s boot, twirling it in his fingers as he stood before jamming it up under the man’s jaw and twisting, leaving it there. The man dropped, convulsing, then stilled.

There was an eerie lull, Jorah using the brief opportunity to go back toward the kitchen to check for more assailants. Then, behind him, the squeak of a boot had him turning, creeping back to the hallway, another man approaching the same way the others came. This one looked different, sharper, more prepared, not a grunt like the others. Yet, Jorah waited as he had before, until the barrel was visible before grabbing it and bringing the arm down against his rising thigh, a sound of bone grinding on bone, followed by grunt greeting Jorah’s ears as the man let go of the weapon. He kicked it aside, his elbow rising up into the man’s face, a stomach-turning crack signaling his nose had been broken. The attacker dipped and turned out of Jorah’s hold, his roundhouse kick connecting weakly with Jorah’s ribs. Pain spread through his torso, but he brushed it aside. He knew what broken ribs felt like and that wasn’t it.

This assassin was clearly very well trained. Likely former special forces and he had one mission: kidnap Daenerys or die trying. Jorah would gladly gift him the latter. Jorah dodged the knuckle backhand, ducked his right hook, deflected his front kick, using the gaps in the man’s attacks to retaliate with ones of his own. Some connected, others missed. Blood stung his eye, made his tongue sticky. He spat a glob of vivid red to the floor when the taste overwhelmed him, the attacker never gaining that same advantage. A right cross followed by a short jab, but Jorah blocked them easily. He was well trained too and his responding uppercut connected solidly with clefted chin. The smaller man staggered back a step, but recovered fast, advancing again. Silver glinted in the light. A knife. Jorah hadn’t seen where he pulled it from. _Shite_.

There was an instant of narrowed gazes glaring at one another before he struck, lunging to Jorah’s left. He sidestepped and shoved at the arm, but not hard enough. A rip of fabric, then searing pain, steel tearing through flesh. A sharp hiss was the only satisfaction the assassin got before his wrist was grasped and twisted painfully, awkwardly backward. _Snap_ , the weapon clattering to the floor. But it was in that moment Jorah realized he had left himself open. The attacker crouched and executed a hook kick, taking Jorah’s legs out from under him. He found himself on his stomach before the air had even finished leaving his lungs, a forearm pressing hard against his throat. Jorah reached back, but it was useless, the chokehold tightening, breathing made all the harder. His vision fuzzed at the edges, but a loud smash broke the silence, glass tinkling around him, the now limp body pressing Jorah to the marble.

Jorah lifted himself a bit and rolled to his right, the body falling off of him in the process. He lay there a moment, catching his breath and rubbing at his throat, Daenerys standing frozen beside him.

“Thanks,” he rasped.

“No problem,” she muttered, staring at what she had just done.

He rose from the floor, crystal shards from the broken vase crunching under his shoes. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. Then her gaze dropped, “Jorah, you’re hurt!”

He followed her widened eyes to his arm and down, blood dripping from his fingertips into a small, growing pool on the marble. He grasped his bleeding wound with his right hand, watching in confusion as Daenerys sprinted off to the kitchen. With the adrenaline fading, pain hit him all at once and from seemingly every part of his body. But his arm was the worst, it hung heavy at his side, the nerves burning like they’d been lit by a match. His mind felt like cotton wool and he shook his head, managing to clear only some of the cobwebs. She returned with a dish towel, tying it tightly around the wound to stanch the bleeding.

“We need to leave. Grab your coat,” he told her before she ran to do so, taking his jacket too.

They left the house and he opened the car door for her before he got in on his side and entered the address of the safe house into his car’s navigation system, choosing the least popular route, before taking off down the driveway, through the gate and onto the road.

They drove in silence for some time, the only sound the soft swish of the wiper blades.

“Do you think I killed him?” Her voice was quiet and emotionless.

“You likely did.” He glanced over to see her staring straight ahead. “But if you hadn’t, _I_ might be the one dead.”

She met his eyes, her expression unreadable. “Then I’m glad I did.” She rested her hand over his on the gear lever. “It meant that I saved you.”

They drove a while longer before he pressed a button on the steering wheel to make a phone call. She recognized the voice when the man on the other end answered. It was Barristan.

“Code Alpha-Two. Situation X-Ray. I need clothes, medical supplies and provisions for two at drop site…” Jorah glanced at the car’s navigation map before continuing, “Rio-Tango-Delta in 15 minutes.”

“Understood.”

They stopped at a petrol station and a tall gray-haired man exited a blacked-out BMW that had been waiting there for them to arrive. He walked to their car and handed Jorah a black duffle bag through the window before nodding and returning to his car, driving off the way they had just come. They pulled back onto the road and continued to their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorah finally said those three important words *sigh*


	18. The Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys seek refuge at the safe house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: graphic description of an injury, angst, feels, some swearing

               The drive seemed to go for ages, and with each kilometre that passed, Daenerys grew more worried about Jorah’s wellbeing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his head bob sharply once, the car dipping into the opposite lane. “Jorah?”

“I’m fine.”

His voice sounded weak; his skin had grown paler. “You’re not fine. Pull over, let me drive.”

“No, we can’t risk stopping again.”

“That won’t matter if we crash.” Daenerys laid her hand on his arm, his pained gaze meeting her concerned one, “Pull over and let me drive…please.”

He didn’t have the strength to fight her. He guided the car to the hard shoulder and got out, switching places with her. Before they started off again, she handed him a water bottle and a packet of something called ‘electrolyte gel’ she’d found in the duffle bag. “Eat this and drink that. I don’t need you passing out on me. You’re a big bloke and kinda heavy.”

He did as she instructed; knowing it would start the process of replenishing what he had lost. He knew they still had a way to go, so he rested his head against the window, but kept his eyes open. Daenerys followed the directions given by the navigation, finally turning off the main road and onto a small country lane. It was completely deserted, no houses or other buildings that she could see, just expansive grassy fields and some short trees. The small cottage they pulled up to was well hidden, the lane dipping down into a valley. She parked around back in a dilapidated garage and opened his door before unlocking the house. She helped him inside, duffle bag in hand, but when she made to turn on the light, he told her ‘no’. He asked if there were candles instead and she went searching for them. While he waited, he sat down heavily in a chair at the small dining room table.

The cottage was as small inside as it was from the outside, and from his vantage point, he could see just one bedroom and bathroom. To his right was the kitchen, simply appointed with an older style stove. There was no refrigerator, but there was an empty space where one had likely been at some point. They had running water at least and Jorah knew the black duffle bag sitting on the floor at his feet contained food that wouldn’t spoil. The sitting room appeared quite cozy, a recliner by the lone window and a black leather sofa that had seen better days, its surface cracked and peeling. There was a large stone fireplace, a pile of cut wood nearby carrying a thin layer of dust and a few cobwebs. All in all, things wouldn’t be so terrible. At least they had each other and Daenerys was safe and unharmed. The rest, they could handle as it happened.

Daenerys returned carrying an armful of candles, in a variety of shapes and sizes, a matchbook clutched in one hand. Standing them on the table, she lit enough to provide adequate light.

               Jorah untied Daenerys’ makeshift tourniquet first, then began to take off his suit jacket, grunting softly at the pain radiating from his wound. He felt her hands rest on his, “Let me help you.” It was as much a statement as a question, because she did want to help him, but didn’t know exactly what he needed from her.

               He regarded her for a moment before he nodded, “Help me take off these clothes, then get the medic kit from the bag.”

               She eased the jacket down his injured arm before leaving it over the back of a nearby chair. She undid his tie and then the buttons of his shirt, her hands trembling slightly. Had this been any other situation, the anticipation of seeing his chest bared to her again would have made her heart beat faster for another reason than the one that currently did. But he needed her help, not her lustful stares right now. The left sleeve of his dress shirt was torn at the bicep and stained crimson to the cuff with drying blood. Her eyes went wide when she gently removed the garment and finally saw the wound up close and personal. The room pitched and spun, her hands bracing against his shoulders as she drew a deep breath against the dizziness, fighting back the rising bile in her throat.

 It was large and deep enough that she could see stark white tissue inside the gash, however, the edges were not jagged and the bleeding had stopped. He noted her shocked expression, “If this is too much for you, tell me. It’s all right if it is.”

               “No.” She swallowed, her voice and gaze firm, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

               “I want you to pour this over the wound, hold this below it to catch the excess liquid.” He handed her a small bottle labeled ‘Betadine’ and a rag. She followed his instructions and he hissed when the cold liquid encountered raw flesh, the golden-brown color of it staining his skin. He glanced at his shoulder before nodding at her to do it again. She did this until the bottle was empty before patting the skin around it dry. “See if you can find me a mirror.”

She left to search the small bathroom and found an old hand mirror in a drawer. She came back and went to hand it to him, but he shook his head. “I’m going to need you to hold that for me so I can see what I’m doing. And when I ask, I’ll need you to help me tie the stitches off.” Panic flashed across her features, his voice reassuring her as much as his eyes did, “You can do this, Daenerys.” She took a breath and nodded.

He had removed his belt, folding over the black leather and shoving it in his mouth, biting down. She helped him pull on a pair of latex gloves, then he opened a small white packet containing a needle with a long dark thread attached. She held up the mirror for him and he surveyed the wound before starting on the bottom in the center. He pierced the skin and a strangled groan came from deep in his chest, the leather creaking between his teeth, his hand shaking for a moment before he took a deep breath and continued. She watched as he deftly stitched himself, his hand moving with such precision that she thought he must have done this many times before. When he asked for help, she followed his instructions, the picture of competence, but inside she was a ball of anxiety. It was over sooner than she thought and she applied a thick gauze pad, taping the edges to his skin. There wasn’t much she could do about his scraped, somewhat swollen knuckles besides follow the directions on the instant cold pack, shaking the slushy contents to mix the two ingredients before setting it on his hand.  The small cut to his eyebrow involved a bit more work, an antiseptic swap and butterfly bandage doing the trick. The flesh around his left eye was slightly puffy and angry red, the white around his iris bloodshot. The bruise that would form in the days to come would be quite colorful. Lastly, she tore open a small white packet containing two large tablets, which he swallowed with the water she found in the bag.

The corner of his mouth turned up slightly, “You would make a wonderful nurse, you know.” His playful tone was meant to try and calm her anxiousness, but his words were sincere.

“No way. I couldn’t do that every day for hours on end. I hate seeing people I care about hurt.”

Standing there between his spread legs, her face was so close she could feel the warm puffs of his breath on her cheek, see the soft sweep of his golden lashes. The proximity also meant that his purely masculine scent surrounded her, soothing her worries while simultaneously making her think things she really shouldn’t be right then. She found herself torn between closing the distance between them to kiss his slightly parted lips or holding back. She chose the latter, it was the wrong place and time for it. With her cooler head prevailing, she stood, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear. “I think I’ll make some tea. Do you want some?”

Jorah could see the blush that had formed on her cheeks and hear the flustered rush of her voice and he was relieved to know he wasn’t the only one who was affected by their closeness. He decided not to press things; they had been through enough already. He took a shirt from the bag and put it on carefully, trying his best not to stress the stitches. “Sure. I’ll check the house for a space heater.”

“Space heater?”

“I think it’s best that we don’t light a fire for a few days,” he said, then added, “Just to be safe.”

“Oh, right. Good idea.”

Once he had left, she closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath. Beneath the worry and stress, she felt the familiar pull, that electric attraction that seemed to be there for a while now every time they were close. Her growling stomach was the perfect distraction and she went to the duffle bag to see what she could find in the way of food. She found two canisters of porridge and several packages of something called MRE’s. Jorah came in then, carrying a small black appliance. “Hungry?” he asked, setting it down on the floor and gesturing to the foil pouches on the table.

“Yeah, what are these?” She held one up to him.

“Those are Meals-Ready-to-Eat, military-style rations. I ate them during the war.” He noticed the look of skepticism on her face as she looked over the packaging and he smiled. “They’re actually not bad; some of them are quite good.”

“Maybe later. I think I’ll stick to porridge for now. Want some?”

“Sure, I’ll help you.”

He made a move toward the kitchen, but she held up a hand to stop him. “I can handle it, you’re injured.”

“Exactly, I’m _injured_ , not helpless. I-”

“Sit, Jorah,” she ordered, her voice leaving no room for further argument.

She waited until he took his seat, only then did she turn from him to search the cupboards for a pot. Finding one, she filled it with water from the tap and poured in the oats before setting it on the stove to boil. The kettle she had filled began to whistle and she poured the warm water over the tea bags in two mugs she had found. She took two bowls from the cupboard, and once the porridge was ready, serving them each a generous helping, Jorah’s containing a bit more. He needed to keep up his strength. She cleaned the table of used first aid items and then sat down opposite him. They ate in silence, but once they had finished, Jorah reached out to take her hand.

She stared at his injured knuckles, the reason behind the damage hitting her all at once, her vision turning blurry. Sniffling against the rising emotions, she met his troubled gaze. “I’m sorry I-”

               “No, Daenerys,” he interrupted, squeezing her hand gently, “There’s nothing to apologize for. I was just being stubborn.”

               His soft expression was intended to break the tension, to ease her worry and any lingering fear, but it wasn’t really working. “You lost so much blood...you—”

Her hand rose to swipe at a tear that had broken free and Jorah couldn’t take it anymore. He shifted his chair until his knees bracketed hers, his fingers tucking under her chin to lift her face. His heart clenched painfully, “Daenerys, I’ll be all right. You helped see to that.”

Jorah brought her hand to his shoulder, ghosting her fingertips over the bandage, then to his face, guiding them to the one on his eyebrow. A moment’s hesitation, then he brought them slowly to the cut on his lower lip, a small one that didn’t seem to cause him any discomfort because he hadn’t suggested they do anything to treat it. “Nothing can stop me from protecting you. _Nothing_.”

The softness of his skin, the prickling of his whiskers, the warmth of his exhalations, _everything_ combined with the gentle intent in his eyes and his earnest words, his promise that he would keep her safe even in the face of the greatest danger, seemed to do the trick. She moved suddenly, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face against his stubbled neck. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He rested his head against hers and engulfed her in his embrace, whispering, “Neither do I.”

She froze and pulled back, her eyes darting over his face. _Curse my mouth_ , Jorah thought, knowing his feelings toward Daenerys had gotten the better of him yet again. But the set of her features told him she was more than all right with his assertion. She cupped his jaw, his head leaning into the touch of its own volition, his eyelids blinking slowly as she closed the distance between them and pressed her lips gently to his for an all too brief moment before she rested her forehead against his. That familiar peace he experienced in her presence swept over him, the feel of her safe and whole in his arms, reassured him too. He had done his job, the aches and pains in his body would go away, but the scars he gained would be so very worth it.

Separating reluctantly, Daenerys cleared the table and Jorah went to the small sitting room window, pulling back the side of the curtain just enough so that he could peek outside. _Stop worrying, there’s no one out there._

“Jorah, you should be resting.”

He turned to find her staring at him, worry written all over her face. “I can’t watch over you if I do.”

“I’ll be all right, no one followed us.” When he didn’t move, she sighed, “Please, Jorah.”

_Perhaps sitting down for a while would be a good idea._ He took a seat on the sofa, the comfy cushions already beckoning him to give in to his exhaustion.

“I’m going to look for some blankets.”

He nodded, his eyelids growing heavier by the second. Shaking his head, he tried to fight it, but it was a losing battle. When Daenerys returned, a few quilts in her arms, she found Jorah fast asleep. A smile dimpled her cheeks and she walked to his side, quietly setting down the extras so she could unfurl one to drape over him. He shifted under it, but didn’t awaken. Then she took one for herself and curled up at the other end, turning so she could see him. He slept peacefully, his face and body relaxed. He had lost quite a bit of blood and he looked a bit paler than usual, however, Jorah was a strong man, a fighter. And deep down she knew he would recover quickly. Safe and far away from any threat, her own weariness finally got the better of her and she let herself be carried away by it, the last thing she saw was Jorah’s handsome profile.

She awoke several hours later, the candles nearly burnt out, the light filtering from around curtains dull and grey. It had stopped raining, but the chill outside had begun to make its way inside, her teeth threatening to start chattering. She rose as gingerly as she could so as not to wake Jorah and padded softly to the table to light more candles, some of which she took to the coffee table, before plugging the heater in and turning it to its highest setting. It would take time for such a small appliance to warm the entire room. Daenerys sat on the floor close to it, her hands rubbing over her upper arms, using the friction to try and spread some warmth.

Movement drew her attention to the sofa, Jorah blinking away the vestiges of sleep. He ran a hand over his beard and through his hair, “How long was I asleep?”

Daenerys couldn’t suppress the shiver that danced up her spine at the roughness of his voice. She loved how he sounded just after waking. “Almost six hours.” He shook his head and stood, grabbing the blanket and draping it across her shoulders. “Thanks.”

He joined her on the floor, although it was a bit more of a struggle for him to get down there. He was still sore from the fight, his arm hurting something fierce. He’d taken the antibiotics and there were pain killers in the medic kit, but he couldn’t risk it. Trying to protect someone while you are disoriented and drowsy was a difficult task.

They were fairly close, her seated cross-legged, Jorah with his legs bent up, forearms resting on his knees. While it wasn’t all that comfortable, it put them in the path of the warmth issuing from the heater, easing some of the chill.

“Aren’t you cold,” she asked, taking in his choice of attire, a dark blue short sleeve t-shirt, and black dress slacks. She had pulled on an oversized jumper from the bag and was still somewhat cold. The blanket he’d put around her was helping though.

“I don’t get cold easily.”

_It must be the bear thing_ , she thought, wondering if his nickname was for more than just something heroic he had done during the war. She’d seen the coppery fur dusting his chest, trailing in a line down his stomach to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers. Did he like to sleep in during the winter and eat fresh berries and clover honey in the summer? Well, she already knew that was true. During what had been left of that season, when he had first come to live with her, she had noticed the fruit in the refrigerator every day, a glass jar of the viscous sweetener on the countertop. Bears are protective, but they are also wild and it wasn’t the first time she had considered the possibility that Jorah could be that way sometimes too. Her dreams had certainly shown her he could. She flushed at the memory of one in particular, closing her eyes to try and clear it away.

“All right?”

She looked up to find him staring at her, the flickering light from the candles on the coffee table beside them glittering in his eyes.

“Yeah,” she answered, clearing her throat unnecessarily, her fingers unconsciously toying with the hem of the blanket. “My mind just wandered a bit.”

He regarded her a while longer, then looked away, leaving his profile to her study. _Gods, those cheekbones, they could cut glass_. “Are you feeling better? How’s your arm?”

“I am. The arm’s all right.” Jorah noted the skeptical arch of her eyebrow, “Believe me, I’ve had much worse.”

“Such as?”

_Did she really want to hear about this?_ “I was shot in the leg.” Her eyes widened like saucers. “Here,” his finger indicating the outer side of his left thigh, “Hurt like the Seven Hells and bled something awful, but the medics got to me in plenty of time.”

Daenerys blanched. “Okay, that definitely qualifies as worse. I’m glad there are people who want to go off and fight. I couldn’t do it.”

“And there’s no shame in that. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses.” He offered her a small smile, “You’ve got more bravery in you than you think.” _There’s that eyebrow again._ “You smashed the vase over that man’s head. That was very brave of you.”

A soft blush spread across her cheeks. “I know you told me to hide, but I could sense that something was wrong. I saw him on top of you, his arm around your neck. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t let him…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought: _kill you._

Jorah could see how the fact that she’d killed someone affected her. War had desensitized him, but it wasn’t a good thing. Daenerys was young, but certainly not innocent. Living in her father’s world, everything she had seen, heard and experienced first-hand had numbed her in a different way. She was brave in her own way too, protecting someone she cared for. Even if it meant killing them. “You saved my life, you know.”

She blinked at him. “You could have taken care of it. You just needed a little…help.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now,” he asked with a smile.

Daenerys couldn’t help but snicker. She could tell that’s what he had intended. “Well, for all the times you’ve saved my life, it only seemed fair. Which is,” she paused to think, “what, five times now?”

“Something like that. But it’s my job.”

“Right.” She sighed, “You know, that party at the night club, Daario didn’t even try to help me. You would think someone who says they care about you would’ve done _something_.”

“Some people are fight, others flight.”

“Daario was part of a secret underground fight club, Jorah. Tough guy, my arse,” Daenerys scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Jorah smiled at her cursing. He wasn’t going to tell her now, but he thought she was absolutely adorable when she did. She may be petite, but she had a fire in her that rivaled most people he knew.

“You didn’t know that?” His look must have said no and he was glad for it. He didn’t want her to know he had called to check up on her boyfriend. “He went on and on about it, I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

“We never talked much.”

“Now I understand why you didn’t like him.”

_Not all of my reasons_. “It’s water under the bridge now,” he half shrugged, trying to act unfazed.

“You tried to warn me, get me to look at the bigger picture and I didn’t listen. That worked out well.”

He took a deep breath, trying to find the right thing to say. “Daenerys, I don’t hold that against you. My reaction at first was…well, it wasn’t all about your safety.”

“What do you mean?”

_Better out with it._ “You deserved better. Perhaps it was my ‘Jorah-sense’ as you call it, but I couldn’t shake the fact that he wasn’t good for you.”

“You told me as much and I only realized it too late,” she sighed, shaking her head.

“Better late than never.”

“Have you ever considered a career as a political advisor? You’d be great.”

Jorah chuckled. “No, I’ll stick to being a bodyguard thanks.” He sobered, “Daenerys, why were you so adamant that we go and save your father?”

She figured he would ask that question at some point, she had just hoped it would be later. “If my father dies, then…” her throat tightened, “I’m all alone. The last of my family.”

Jorah understood now, he had some sense of what that was like. His parents were gone, he had no siblings, only a niece he barely knew. “You are not alone, Daenerys. I will never abandon you.”

“You-”

“Family is more than blood. It is those who care for us, who truly love-” He realized too late that his true feelings had managed to slip through and his face most certainly showed it. He had been careless once, but now, a second time…

She matched his surprised expression, their gazes locked. This man was an enigma: kind, intelligent, and a bit sarcastic. But he was also fierce, strong and totally unafraid to put his life on the line for _her_. Maybe it had been just a job to him once, but now, she didn’t think so. Did he really love her as he had blurted out earlier that day?

“Jorah, earlier you…you said you loved me.” Something changed in his eyes, an emotion there she couldn’t name. “Is that true?”

Her whispered question shot right to his suddenly constricted chest, her violet gaze brimming with hope. _Shite_. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Daenerys’ heart cracked and her shoulders fell. _Of course, he doesn’t._ “Oh.” It was all she could say and she looked away, trying not to show how much it hurt.

“Daenerys,” he said softly, “I shouldn’t have said it _then._ ” Her eyes shot to his and he saw a glimmer of that hope he’d seen before return. “I didn’t want you to think I was manipulating your emotions so you’d stop thinking about your father. But it just…came out.”

“So,” she licked her lips, her eyes watching his intently, “You did mean it?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“When,” she breathed.

“When?”

“When did you fall in love with me?”

“I realized my feelings had changed before the art exhibition, but I tried to push them away. To do my job without emotion.” He shook his head, his expression softening, “But I couldn’t help it. After the night club, I was hopelessly in love with you. I tried to maintain my professionalism, but it was a losing battle. By Christmas, I didn’t want to fight it anymore.”

“You tried. The night you taught me to play pool.”

Memories flooded his mind and body. “Stopping that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

“That’s why you went and pounded the daylights out of that punching bag.” Then she realized what she had revealed, her hand dropping the blanket to muffle her gasp.

The corner of his lips quirked, “I knew you were there.”

“Of course you did,” she blushed hard, “I should’ve known you would.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” she looked away, “Not really anyway.” She drew a slow breath, “So all of those times I felt something between us, felt something _here_ ,” she rubbed at her breastbone, “I wasn’t imagining things.”

“No,” he said, “I felt it too.”

_This changes everything_ , she thought. But then she wondered if it really would. He hadn’t tried to kiss her again or touch her in any way that could be construed as romantic. He was still the professional, all of their intimate contact had been _her_ doing. But then it hit her, Jorah was not a pushy man. He always let _her_ make the first move, putting the ball firmly in her court. Which in turn gave her all of the power, allowing her to dictate the speed and course of their developing relationship. Something none of her other partners had ever done. And if this was truly a relationship, she didn’t see Jorah as a womanizer, a man who played with a woman’s emotions to get what he wanted. He was in it for the long term. And he definitely wouldn’t be a fling to her either. Daario had been a mistake of epic proportions, but Jorah, well, everything with him felt different than anything she’d ever experienced. It felt good. _Right_. It was that last descriptor that really summed it up for her. They felt right together.

Staring at him, her gaze dropped to his lips and the world fell away. There was no danger, no fear, just her and him. She remembered how sweet his mouth had been against her own, gentle yet no less intent. She had felt like the center of his universe in his arms, the only thing that mattered to him. Needing to feel that again after what had happened, she let the blanket fall from her shoulders as she rose to her knees, closing the small gap between them. Jorah dropped his arms slowly to his sides and shifted his legs to create more space for her, a tacit agreement to keep going. The warmth of his breath ghosted over her lips and her eyelids fluttered, her heart racing in her chest.

“Tell me again, Jorah.”

               “I love you, Daenerys.”

               A sigh, a soft brush of lips, then…the shrill ring of his mobile cut through the spell around them. She sat back, trying to catch her breath. Jorah exhaled hard and fished the offending device from his pocket.

He didn’t need to look to know who was calling, “Selmy.”

Daenerys really wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, she was trying to rein in her emotions. So close, only to have it slip through her fingers. But she didn’t have to wait long, the call ended up being quite short. “What did he say?”

“They have a precise location on your father.”

“That’s good news.”

He nodded. “Barristan said he’d let us know the moment he has more information.”

So it was back to the waiting game. He suggested they search the sitting room for something to pass the time. Daenerys found a battered copy of Monopoly and a deck of cards. Jorah faired a bit better: two puzzles and an old edition of Scrabble. They set the boxes on the coffee table, he perused the stack before he picked up the word game and looked at her, one eyebrow raised, “Care to play?”

She just smiled in response.

The first game was slow going, as they got reacquainted with the rules and each other’s style of gameplay. She had won the first match but only narrowly, on a triple word score with ‘zipper’. In the second round, Jorah now used to the game again, blocked off word pathways and had the luck of drawing the letters with higher point values. She, on the other hand, was stuck with mostly vowels. It was obvious to her that he was going to win handily. But when he did, he didn’t gloat or lord it over her, he simply asked if she wanted to go again. They went on like this until the sky grew dark outside and they were hungry again. Jorah appeared to be feeling better, he didn’t look nearly as pale or weak as he had previously and his movements were surer. He mulled over the packages of food and chose one he had eaten before, fettuccine alfredo, and set a pot of water to boil. Once it was ready, he poured it into the bag and stirred it until it was thoroughly mixed. He set a plate in front of her and Daenerys was surprised to find it tasted far better than she’d expected.

Once dinner was over, they sat putting together one of the puzzles from the cupboard when his mobile rang.

“Jorah, I have good news for you. The team is planning an early morning extraction for tomorrow, as it is midnight there now. Their communication lines with me will go dark at least two hours before the mission starts, but they will open again as soon as they have him at a secure location. I probably won’t have news for a while. But as soon as I know anything, I’ll call.”

“All right, thanks for the update. ‘Night.” Jorah hung up the phone and turned to Daenerys. “The team is planning a mission for the early morning tomorrow.” Her brows furrowed in concern. He took her hands in his own. “I’ve worked with them; these men are the best at what they do. I know it’s hard, the waiting, but we need to be patient.” She held his eyes before she nodded slowly. She stood and he rose, her arms wrapping around him, needing the comfort his embrace gave. He held her for some time, not speaking, until she pulled from him and said softly, “Thank you.”

He looked down at her eyes as she gazed up at him, “Of course.”

She left to retrieve some soap from the duffle bag, saying she was going to shower and get ready for bed. He watched her retreating form until the door closed behind her. He decided he would check the bookshelf in the corner to pass the time, finding an old art book that looked interesting. About ten minutes later, he heard her call from the bathroom, “You wouldn’t happen to have a shirt I could borrow, would you?”

He went to the bedroom and rummaged through the duffle, finding a blue long sleeve one. When he arrived at the bathroom, her arm was sticking out of the barely open door. He smiled to himself and placed it in her waiting hand, a muffled ‘thank you’ coming from the other side. “No problem.” He called back as the door shut. He went back to the couch and picked up his book to continue reading.

She emerged a short while later, her fingers loosely plaiting her hair. The shirt he had given her dwarfed her petite frame and he found it extremely attractive seeing her in an article of clothing that looked almost exactly like something he owned. She joined him on the couch and wrapped the blanket around her legs, resting her head against the cushioned arm. She stifled a yawn against the back of her hand, not realizing how tired she was again. She closed her eyes to rest them for a moment, but after a short while, Jorah glanced over and found her asleep. He smiled watching her; she looked so peaceful that he didn’t want to move her. He tucked the blanket tighter around her and let her sleep, making himself as comfortable as he could on the other end of the couch. Sleep soon took hold of him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think next week's chapter will make everyone *very* happy ;)


	19. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys share an intimate moment and a little game of Blackjack leads to some revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys have kissed, now I think it's time to take another step. It's not 'all the way' yet...that's next week ;) But once that dam breaks, these two will be insatiable for one another.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Erotica

Jorah woke suddenly, the rain pelting against the window. He glanced at his watch, squinting in the low light. 4:30am. He looked over and found Daenerys still asleep, although she looked nearly as uncomfortable as he felt. He rose and lifted her into his arms to carry her to bed, grimacing a bit as his wound throbbed in protest. He crossed the sitting room into the small bedroom, lying her down on the side of the bed farthest from the door just in case. He went to stand, but her fingers tightened in his shirt, her voice drowsy, “No…stay.” He looked at her face and found her eyes were still closed.  He didn’t have the heart to leave her; so, he climbed carefully into bed, trying and succeeding in not waking her. He watched her until his eyelids felt heavy and he was asleep before he even realized it.

               When he woke again, the room was less dark than before but it was still quite early. Jorah’s internal clock was almost always spot on when it came to things like that. The rain still fell, although it was softer now. He closed his eyes briefly, listening to his surroundings and finding nothing amiss. They were far from the city out here and it was highly unlikely that those who were pursuing her would find them now. The only thing he heard came from the woman beside him, Daenerys’ soft, even breathing calmed him in an unexpected way. Sleeping beside her had too. For the first time in a long time, he had slept without dreams, the deep, dreamless sleep of someone at ease. And it appeared she had too, she was still in the same position he had laid her down in: curled on her side, hands tucked under her chin. Jorah watched her a bit longer, then sat up and rolled his neck, still slightly stiff from when he had slept on the couch. He pulled up his sleeve to check the bandage and found it still secure; his wound aching far less than it had the day before. He lifted his shirt to his nose and made a face at the smell, deciding a change of clothing was in order. He took it off gingerly, not wanting to further stress his injury.

               Daenerys’ eyes opened slowly and the first sight that greeted her was Jorah’s broad, _naked_ , back being revealed to her as he pulled his shirt carefully over his head. Her eyes roamed over his skin, watching the muscles bunch and flex as he moved, her hands itching to touch him, to feel him. She saw several scars there, but it was the one near the long side of his left scapula, white and slightly raised, that intrigued her most. _How did he get that_ , she wondered a second before the words left her lips, “How did you get that scar?”

               He started a bit at the sound of her soft voice and looked over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, “Which one?”

He watched her sit up and scoot closer to him, her eyes trained on his back as her hand rose to touch the mark. He inhaled audibly when her soft fingertips traced over the scar. His head inclined toward her and she met his eyes, “This one.”

Her gaze hesitated on his lips, then dropped to watch his Adam’s apple bob with his hard swallow. “Shrapnel from an IED. It’s still in there.” She sucked a breath through her teeth, her bottom lip taking up residence there.

Something shifted between them, the air crackling with that familiar attraction. Her nearly palpable observation moved slowly over his shoulder, down his chest, and across his flat stomach, her fingers trailing after her eyes when he turned to face her more fully, her hand stopping to rest over his heart. It beat faster under her palm. When she met his eyes again, he saw desire burning there and he felt himself consumed by it. She pressed her lips to his suddenly, her arms winding around his neck to draw him down onto the bed with her, wriggling and pulling until he was half over her. Their lips moved hungrily over one another’s, but not nearly enough to fully satisfy the need that welled within them. His tongue snaked into her mouth, twining with her own in an intimate dance. His mind told him to stop, that it was wrong to take advantage of her in this stressful time, but the way she kissed him, the way her fevered gaze sought his when they parted for precious air, left no doubt in his mind that she wanted this as much as he did. He never wanted to push her, to make her feel that she had to do anything. Jorah wanted her to take the lead, to dictate how fast or slow she wanted things to go.

His left leg shifted, nestling between her thighs, the pressure against her aching clit was perfect and she ground down against it. Her hand ran up his back to bury itself in his hair, tongues tasted and teased, teeth nipping at swollen lips. He was loathe to break apart from them, kissing her was an act to be savored, not rushed. And yet the urge to worship the swan-like curve of her neck was too great to ignore. He broke the kiss reluctantly, sliding his lips over her jaw, tongue darting out like a flash to taste the saltiness there. Her head lolled to the side, exposing what she so desperately needed him to kiss. Her pulse fluttered like hummingbird’s wings under his laving tongue, each swipe had her body shivering. He shifted his weight slightly to the side, his left hand now free to explore her body. Her back rose from the mattress, directing him to where she needed his touch. His palm molded to the softness of her breast, feeling the hard press of her nipple even through the fabric. If his mind was still thinking of stopping, those thoughts fled him in that instant. He kneaded it gently, his thumb moving in slow circles and flicking brushes. She keened and arched, rolling her center against the taut quadriceps wedged so deliciously there. His hand slid from her breast as his mouth came back to hers, swallowing her moans, to clutch the back of her thigh before sliding up under the hem of the shirt to grasp the gorgeous swell of her bottom and bring her more fully against him. A sharp, hot bolt of pleasure shot up her spine, a needy whisper of his name had him groaning. Only then did he realize she wore only panties under there, the delicate lace soft against his roughened skin, his cock twitching at the thought of her lying before him clad only in her intimate apparel.

 Gods, he wanted to witness the beauty of her orgasm, to find out if she would utter his name in the midst of a moan or make no sound at all. While he loved what they were doing and Daenerys was quickly on her way to falling apart if the way she ground herself desperately against his thigh was any indication, he wanted to touch her, to feel her arousal first-hand, not just seeping through her panties to dampen his trousers.

She let out a disappointed whine when he moved his leg from between hers, but then he shifted them until she was more on her back, his hand caressing the subtle jut of her hipbone to span the soft rise of her womanly belly, her skin hot like fire. But he was already burning for her, consumed by a desire he had never felt before. He lifted his mouth from hers and met her eyes, asking, pleading. Her hand drifted down to press his between her legs to cup her sex. The way she gasped his name made him think they were moving too fast. But the need he saw reflected back at him, the almost shy way her hips curled up into the warm weight of his palm erased those thoughts immediately. The wet heat of her soaked his fingertips even through the cloth and he couldn’t suppress his low groan.

He found her little pearl easily, the callused pad of his finger rasped against the sodden lace in a slow, easy circle. She whimpered, her body moving into the pressure of his touch, her voice pleading for more. Then she was slipping him under the waistband and into her soft curls, where he paused, searching her eyes one last time for any reservation. He saw only want. _Hunger_. A long-held yearning. He knew all too well what she had been feeling because he had felt it too. He inched slowly forward, then down, a sharp gasp leaving his lips when he encountered slick, hot flesh. _Gods_. Jorah had never been with a woman so aroused before. He swallowed roughly, needing a moment to rein in his fierce desire. This was all about her. “Show me what brings you pleasure, love.”

               Daenerys felt like she couldn’t catch her breath, her body burning at the delicious sound of Jorah’s hoarse whisper, in the heat of his eyes. Usually so calm, they were now dark, hooded, intense. She had never done this with someone before, but the mere thought of it sent a fresh rush of wetness to her core. She followed the contours of his hand until she too felt how aroused she was. Never had another man made her body react so strongly, her need for him on an entirely new level. With tangled fingers, she guided him to her entrance, dipping inside, before drawing the slick digits to her aching clit. She gasped when they slipped easily over it, her bent legs falling open more, her eyelids fluttering at the intensity of the sensation, the thought that he wanted to learn the secrets of her body with her help made her heady with desire. She guided them in slow circles there, building the pleasure like she did when she was alone. But this was far greater than anything she had made herself feel, the roughness of his fingers, the thickness of them creating the most delicious friction.

He had dreamt of touching her this way, of learning her body’s needs and helping her to discover just how much pleasure she could feel at another’s touch. It didn’t take long for Jorah to catch on, his eyes moving over her face, studying her reactions, memorizing what made her brow tense, her eyelids flutter, and her teeth worry at her bottom lip. He let her sounds wash over him, each shaky mewl and soft moan spurring him on. Lost in the haze of sensations, her hand had stopped moving, resting heavily over his, feeling him help her chase the bliss that flickered just within reach. The muscles in her legs twitched, the familiar warmth in her lower belly beginning to grow and spread out.

               “Don’tstopdon’tstop,” she whimpered, pleading with her eyes.

_Oh, I never would._ “That’s it, love. I want to see you come for me.”

               His dreams of her were nothing compared to the real thing. She was mesmerizing in the throes of her ecstasy. Eyes shut tight, the perfect pale arch of her neck, a throaty moan falling from her parted lips. It sounded like his name, but even if it wasn’t, it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. He slowed his movements, easing her through the fading throbs, watching her body to know when she’d had enough. She shuddered against him, grabbing his hand and placing it on her belly as she caught her breath.

               “Jorah…” she whispered, a vaguely stunned expression on her face, her thumb idly stroking the back of his hand. “That was…”

               He smiled softly at her, enjoying the flush her pleasure had brought to her cheeks, the bright happiness in her glittering eyes. He had seen this look on her face before, his mind traveling back to that one morning when she had bounced into the kitchen. She was so beautiful lying there beside him and he wanted to tell her so, but she turned into him, pushing him onto his back, her leg moving across his body until it encountered something hard. She looked down, the considerable bulge making her sex flutter with a lingering aftershock. Jorah intercepted her hand as she reached for him. “You don’t need to, love, that was only for you.”

               “But-”

               “Daenerys,” he began, but stopped. _How do I say this?_ “I want to share my pleasure with you, make it _our_ pleasure.”

               Jorah’s fingers intertwined with hers, bringing their combined grasp to rest on his chest. His words sunk in, he wanted to find his release making love to her. _Oh Gods_. And while the thought of bringing him off with her hand, or even her mouth, was very tempting, she realized she would much rather feel the warmth of it inside her. So she relaxed into his arms, loving the feel of his chest hair beneath her fingers, the heat radiating from his body.

               “Wait,” she lifted her head suddenly, “Say it again.”

               “Which part?”

               “What you called me.”

               An affectionate smile graced his lips, his knuckles brushing over the apple of her cheek, “Love.”

               She sighed happily, leaning into his touch. “I like hearing you call me that.”

               His smile deepened and she snuggled into him once more. Just as her eyelids were starting to grow heavy again, the ring of his mobile interrupted things. They both got up and went into the sitting room. Jorah answered, Daenerys watching while she leaned against the back of the couch. The conversation was short, Jorah barely saying anything. When he hung up, she was gazing at him expectantly. 

“They tried to establish a line of communication early this morning, around 6am our time, but something happened and the connection was broken. He’s working on it now.”

Disappointed, she said, “At least it’s not bad news.” He nodded. She exhaled a breath, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Sure,” he paused, “I think I’ll take a shower first.”

“Okay,” she said, then went to the kitchen to begin cooking. She heard the door to the bathroom close behind her and only then did she sigh, her hands running through her hair. As she stood there stirring the porridge, she couldn’t help but think about what they had just done. One moment she was asking him about a scar, and the next, he was eliciting feelings from her body she had never felt with a man before. The intensity of his kisses, the feel of his fingers on her tender, swollen flesh. Gods, she wished that phone call had never happened because she had wanted to take things to the next level. She swore she could still feel the hard, heavy weight of his arousal against her thigh. Now he was in the shower and that conjured up a whole host of other suggestive images and she groaned, resting her head against the cupboard in front of her. She wondered if he was thinking about this too.

Jorah turned the water as cold as he could stand it and stood under the spray, but sadly, the water did little to cool his ardor. Touching her had done the opposite of what he had thought it would do. Instead of taking the edge off, it only succeeded in making him want her even more. Every kiss, every touch was like a brand on his soul, marking him as hers. But he didn’t need them to know who his heart belonged to. Holding back, being professional after Christmas had only made them both suffer. Jorah took his job seriously, but he realized expressing his love and giving in didn’t make him any less capable of protecting her. It was quite the opposite, she brought out the protective bear in him and the strength of his love was the toughest armour there was. She had gotten under his skin in a way that no woman had ever managed to do. He wanted to hold her in his arms, telling her again exactly what she meant to him and how much he loved her almost as much as wanted to take her to bed and show her with his body the depth of his desire for her. Finishing his shower, he toweled off and dressed, leaving the bathroom. He found a steaming bowl of porridge waiting for him when he arrived in the kitchen, just as she was placing a mug of tea in front of him. They shared a smile and ate together, chatting about seemingly everything. Except what they had just done.

***

They spent the rest of their day waiting for the call that never seemed to arrive. They tried to distract one another with card games and several rounds of Monopoly and Scrabble, only stopping to eat lunch and dinner. By nightfall, Daenerys was walking back and forth in front of the fireplace, playing with the necklace around her neck, his gift from Christmas. Jorah sat reading, or at least he tried to, her pacing was quite distracting.

“You’re going to wear a hole clean through the wood if you keep doing that.”

His matter-of-fact tone had her glaring at him over the top of his book. She stopped and crossed her arms before she took the seat by the window. He watched her staring blankly ahead; her thoughts a thousand miles away. She continued fidgeting though, playing with the bear paw charm, turning it back and forth in her fingers, her leg jiggling. _At least she’s not pacing anymore_ , he thought. He glanced at his watch, it was nearly 9pm. He rose from the couch and stretched as best he could before walking over to where she sat, leaning against the wall beside the window. She looked up at him, her tone attempting to be exceedingly serious, “I’m not a very patient person, you know.”

“I can see that,” he chuckled. She was trying very hard not to respond to his light laughter. She couldn’t help it and she finally gave in, laughing right along with him. She finished with a sigh, the sound of his deep laugh making her feel at ease.

She tapped her foot against the floorboards, the gloomy weather and the weight of the situation made her very jittery. “I need to do something or else I’m gonna go mad.”

“How would you like to pass the time?”

He saw the proverbial light bulb go off above her head as she glanced at the table and then back to him, “How do you feel about Blackjack?”

His eyebrows rose at her words, “Blackjack? Really? But we have nothing to bet, Daenerys.”

She eyed him slyly, “Oh yes we do. We bet my way.”

“ _Your way?_ ” he repeated, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at her. “What exactly is that?”

“You’ll see. You game?”

If it would distract her, then he was willing to try pretty much anything. “All right, I’m game. How does it work?”

She rose from her chair and took the deck of cards from the table, sitting on the floor near the fireplace and shuffling them. Jorah had finally decided it was safe enough to light a fire and turn on the lights, they likely hadn’t been followed. She patted the floor in front of her and dealt him two cards face down before doing the same for herself. “Well, it’s Blackjack with a twist, my friend Tyrion came up with it one night while he was drunk. Standard Blackjack rules apply, but instead of betting money, you bet questions.”

_This could be interesting,_ he concluded. “Sounds like fun.”

She glanced down at her cards, lifting the edges just enough so she could see what she had: 15. She knew she could easily bust if she took another card, so she decided to hold. She watched him as he looked at his cards, his features unreadable as he turned them over. 18. She did the same and he smiled, she could see his mind working as he thought of a question to ask her. “If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?”

Daenerys didn’t need to think about her answer. “The South of France. Provence, Nice, The French Rivera. It’s so beautiful. I’ve wanted to go there for as long as I can remember.” She sighed, “Maybe one day I will.” She started dealing the next hand, “Have you ever been there?”

“No, but I’ve heard wonderful things about it.”

The next hand went to her. “Are you a cat or dog person?”

“I’m not partial to either one. I like both.”

“Did you have a pet growing up?”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, “I thought it was one question per hand.”

“It’s a related one.” She waved her hand, “Go on now, answer away.”

“My father had dogs. They were family pets really, so I never had one of my own.”

“Do you want to get one someday?”

“Sure, someday.”

Satisfied that he’d fully answered her question, she started dealing again. He won this round, netting a 21 with an ace and a king. “Ooo, you got 21, that’s the wild card hand. You can ask me _anything._ ”

_Anything_ , he mused. He spent a while thinking of a good question, then it came to him. “Have you been in love before?”

Daenerys was silent for some time looking into the fire before she said, “I thought I was, but it turns out, it wasn’t love at all.” But then she smiled softly and looked right at him, “I only know that because…” She trailed off, her voice going soft, “I know now what it _really_ feels like.”

Jorah blinked at her, disbelief coloring his gaze. _Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Could she be talking about me? Does she love me back?_ Questions swirled in his head, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on them since she had dealt him two new cards. “What do you think is your best physical feature?”

It took him a second to realize she had won and had asked him something. Jorah took a breath, collecting his thoughts. He didn’t really think much about his physical appearance. He thought he was all right in the looks department and several women in the past had complimented his eyes. That was too obvious an answer though. “Honestly, I like my hands.”

“Your hands,” she repeated, a bit surprised.

“They’ve saved my life and the lives of others countless times.” He looked down at them, “They’re strong,” he paused, “And they remind me of my father’s.”

Daenerys was looking at them too. They really were strong, just masculine enough, and while they were large to her, there was a gentle grace in their strength, a reassurance in their roughened texture. Never before had holding a man’s hand made her feel so safe, so cared for. He had indeed saved her life. In more ways than he knew. But other memories bubbled to the surface, her body flushing hot at how dexterous his fingers had been between her legs, teasing the sweetest pleasure from her body, how the warmth from his hand had seeped into the flesh of her thigh, how it made her yearn for his touch on the rest of her bare skin.

Jorah noticed a flush bloom across her cheeks, her eyes trained on his hands. He had an idea of what she was thinking, his own mind returning to that morning. His hands were hers, in every sense of the word. To protect her, to hold her, and now, to explore every inch of her gorgeous body if she asked him to.

She cleared her throat unnecessarily, her fingers fumbling as she dealt the next hand. She won again and decided to take a safer route. “What’s your favorite book?”

“ _The Once and Future King_ by T.H. White.” He smiled, “I’ve always been fascinated with the Medieval era.”

Daenerys smiled too, imaging Jorah as a Knight, broadsword in hand, shield gleaming in the sunlight. But hadn’t she already done that in her dreams and in her art? The idea of a chivalrous man, wholly devoted to one woman’s protection, willing to lay down his life for her, wasn’t far from Jorah’s service to her. She thought him her Knight in shining armour and had drawn him as such.

The next hand went to her too and she decided to try a different tack, “Do you think you’re a romantic at heart?”

“I think I could be…with the right woman.”

Jorah was looking right at her when he said that, and somehow, she knew he was talking about her. She didn’t doubt that he could be romantic: candlelit dinners, bouquets of her favorite flowers, little love notes left in her purse or other unexpected places. There was just something about Jorah that told her he was capable of such things.

Jorah won the next one, it was 21 again. He ran his hand back and forth over his beard, contemplating the perfect question. “What’s the best kiss you’ve ever had?”

She worried her bottom lip. _Perhaps this game was a bad idea_. She hadn’t considered that Jorah might ask a question where he would be the answer. She knew she couldn’t lie to him; he knew her too well. _Here goes nothing_ , she thought. “You, on Christmas.” Her voice nearly a whisper.

His eyebrows shot up at her answer. While he was honored, and a bit flattered, to be the best kiss she’d ever had, he was a bit surprised too. He watched her eyes and the way she looked up and to the left told him that she was remembering it now. He smiled at her, her gaze meeting his almost shyly.

She dealt the cards again and they checked them before turning them over: her 19 to his 17.

It was her turn to ask, “Are you a legs, breast or arse man?”

“Not even waiting for 21, I see,” he chuckled, “Payback for the last question?” Daenerys rolled her eyes, even as she was trying, and ultimately failing, not to smile. “Legs.”

The next hand, much to Daenerys’ delight, went in her favor. And it was 21. Jorah sat there, gaze expectant, patiently waiting. Back and forth, she debated whether or not she should ask him this question. It was very personal and specific, and if she was honest with herself, she was fairly sure what his answer would be. She took a deep breath, her mind made up, “Are you a ‘giver’?”

Jorah knew what she meant; he didn’t need further elaboration. “Yes.” He saw the instant his answer sunk in, the look in her eyes shifting. Throwing caution to the wind, he took his opportunity, “Your other partners weren’t.”

It was a statement and a question and Daenerys didn’t care about the game anymore. “Let’s just say my previous experiences have been disappointing.”

               “Then they weren’t men. A real man doesn’t take from a woman, he _gives_ to her.”

The implication of his words, coupled with the gravely purr of his voice, made gooseflesh rise on her skin. “What would you give me, Jorah?”

“Everything.”

The air was ripped from her lungs, her throat like the desert as yearning pulsed through her veins with each frantic beat of her heart. The look in Jorah’s eyes, an understated assurance, told her he would do exactly that. In that instant, with the sizzling energy sparking between them as it had on several other occasions before, she wanted nothing more than to let him give her _everything_. As if in slow motion, they closed the distance between them, their lips drawing closer, the pull like positive/negative magnets until…Jorah’s mobile rang. The spell dissolved with a blink of their eyes and he rose to answer the call. His face was unreadable while he listened, only saying a few words here and there before he said thank you and hung up.

“So?”

“Your father’s safe. They airlifted him to an Air Force Base in Qatar for medical treatment of a few minor injuries.” But then his face grew serious, “Two of the men holding him hostage managed to escape. They’re trying to track them, but it’s proving difficult.”

She sat down heavily on the couch, her hands running through her hair. “Thank the gods that’s over.” She looked up at him, “And thank you for getting my father back.”

“All I did was make a phone call, Daenerys.”

“But it’s the one phone call that no one else made.”


	20. No More Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more distractions. No more interruptions. Daenerys and Jorah take the final step in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow burn has finally burst into flames! And it can't be put out easily, given the chemistry between our two lovebirds.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Explicit erotica

Jorah was aware of the crick in his neck first and then the feel of the warm body beside him. If he had to guess, given how low down the fire had burned, it was well into the middle of the night. He glanced down at Daenerys curled up against his side, her hand resting on his chest. The stress of waiting for news and then finally getting it had taken an emotional and physical toll on her. They’d sat down on the couch together, talked for a bit, but then he found she wasn’t answering back. She’d fallen asleep against him. He didn’t have the heart to wake her, so he stayed, reaching over to pull the blanket over them both. The easy cadence of her breathing must have lulled him into sleep. He found he drifted so easily into it when she was near and he appeared to give her the same gift. Peaceful sleep truly was a gift, they both understood that. Anyone who suffered the bane of nightmares knew that too.

 She stirred but didn’t awaken, cuddling further into him, whispering, “Jorah.” It was so soft he almost didn’t hear her. He wrapped his left arm around her, wincing a bit when the movement hurt his wound. She slept for a little while longer, allowing him to merely enjoy the feeling of having her near before her hand moved from his chest to rub at her face. She lifted her head and regarded him with sleepy eyes, “Sorry I fell asleep on you.”

“Don’t be, I’m not.” There was affection in the way he looked at her, in the small, special smile that he shared only with her. And he was sharing it with her now. No man had ever looked at her this way before and she realized that he had given her this look before. Several times. It hit her suddenly: he had been in love with her far longer than he’d led on. His love was a steady constant, not flashy or erratic. He never used his love as a bargaining tool to get what he wanted or faked it to make her fall in line. He loved her without a need for reciprocation. Jorah simply loved her…and she had never known a love like that. But she did know that what she felt for him was real and true. She knew she’d been in love with him for some time too.

Something changed in her eyes. He saw her return the affection that he had shown her and he reached up to tuck some loose strands of hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing softly over her cheek. She reached up to grasp his hand and hold it to her face, her other reaching out to trace her fingers over his bottom lip. His nostrils flared on a deep breath, her touch igniting a fire inside him. He desperately wanted to kiss her again; but he wanted her to make the first move, so she was sure this is what she wanted.

In a soft, but no less sure, voice, she said, “I love you, Jorah.”

The words he had longed to hear filled his entire being, his pulse pounding in his ears. _She loves me._ This intelligent, gentle-hearted, beautiful woman loved _him_. She could have any man she wanted, yet she chose him. The organ in his chest felt too big in the wake of her declaration, he swore it would burst if she said anything more. But she didn’t. She leaned in to kiss him, her hands clasping the front of his shirt. The kiss was soft, almost chaste, but soon became heated as her tongue swept over his bottom lip. She gasped into his mouth at that first touch, tentative, hesitant in its gentle stroking against one another. This kiss was so different from the one they’d shared earlier; it reminded her a little of the first time she’d ever kissed him. A bloom of warmth spread through her chest, her heart starting to pound against her ribcage. Tired of the awkward angle, she swung her leg over his lap, his fingers carding through her hair, tilting her head slightly to bring her lips more fully into contact with his. He made a sound low in his throat when her jean-clad center made contact with his rapidly hardening cock. She broke the kiss and ground herself against him, murmuring against his lips, “Gods, you feel so good.”

His hands moved down her back to her bottom, gripping her, and when he lifted his hips, he pulled her tighter against him. Her head fell back with a moan; her hold on his shirt tightening with each roll of her body against him. Her arousal soaked her panties, her movements causing them to slide wetly back and forth over her clit. It felt like her heart was pounding between her legs and all of the experiences she had ever had with men could not have prepared her for this; she was already embarrassingly wet and they had barely started. Her body’s reaction to him was intense, every cell in her being crying out for his touch. Her hands shook slightly as she started unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to see and touch his chest again. It wasn’t nerves that had her trembling, it was anticipation. It was need. She pulled the bottom of it free from where it was tucked into his trousers to get the last two buttons. She bit her bottom lip, reaching under the open fabric and stroking her hands over the lean definition of his pectorals and down through the happy trail that bisected his flat stomach, stopping at his waistband. She reached back up to remove it, but she knew she needed to be mindful of his injury, so she eased the right arm off first then the left. She tossed the garment aside, her eyes drinking in the broadness of his chest and shoulders. The springy ginger-blond fur. The darker pigmented skin of his areolae around his pebbled masculine flesh. His numerous scars. He was hers, to touch, to explore. And she wasted no more time. She started at his jaw, following the strong line with damp, open-mouthed kisses, his whiskers abrading her lips, the burn of it oh so good. The rumble of Jorah’s groan vibrated all the way to her core, the heat of his hard exhale ghosting over her cheek. She went to his ear next, brushing her lips over the shell, tongue darting out to tease the lobe before she took it between her teeth.

She went back to his lips, kissing him hungrily, her fingers splaying, carding through his chest hair. His nipples were smaller than hers, but as she discovered when her thumb teased first one then the other, they were nearly as sensitive. His stomach dipped under his sharply indrawn breath, but he made no move to stop her or hurry things along. He let her do as she wished, knowing that he would have his chance later. And he fully intended to take his time because it was what she deserved.

Her nails scraped softly down the center of his abdomen to his belt, then she rose slightly and snaked her hand between them, cupping his hardness. Her fingertips followed what she could feel of the contours with closed eyes, like she was learning him by touch alone. A soft smile curled her lips, and when her eyelids opened, he swore he saw satisfaction intermingled with desire. She had turned him on that much, made him that hard, and she couldn’t help but be a bit proud of that fact. 

Her hand went to the belt buckle then, but she didn’t even have a chance to undo it before he took her hand in his. He brought her fingers to his lips to kiss the tips of each one softly, his eyes meeting hers as he whispered against them, “Let me undress you, Daenerys. I need to see you.”

               Slipping his hands under the shirt, he rested them on the soft curve of her waist, savoring the heat of her skin before he followed the silhouette of her body, dragging the garment up with him. He only caught a glimpse of her breasts when the shirt lifted over her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulders to conceal them once more. Sitting there, perched on his lap in nothing but her jeans, Jorah was nearly undone by her beauty. Her tresses fell in soft waves to her waist, her hooded eyes watching him intently, her pale skin seemingly lit from within, the remnants of the fire dancing around her. She was his fire, the one that fueled him, but she was also the one that had cleansed his soul. Like tender shoots rising from charred earth, she had given him new life. And he intended to show her his gratitude every day for the rest of his life. 

Pebbled dusky pink peeked through the strands of silver, a tantalizing tease. But he wouldn’t wait any longer, he needed to see them bared to his hungry gaze. He lifted her hair out of the way and his lips parted, they were more beautiful than he had imagined. His fingers skimmed the outer curve, her back arching into the touch. And when one callused fingertip brushed over her nipple, she surged against his hand, her sharp gasp urging him to do it again. It quickly became apparent the more he touched her that those she had been with before had never shown them the attention they so richly deserved. But he would. His hands, mouth, and tongue would all pay tribute to their beauty.

 He leaned forward and kissed the tops of her breasts, tracing the swell with his tongue, his hands cradling her back, holding her close, supporting her. Her fingers gripped his hair, desperately holding his head to her. He pulled back just enough so he could exhale a long slow breath over her, watching the gooseflesh tighten her skin. She had once complained that her breasts were smaller than she would have liked, but all he saw was perfection and he ached to take the hardened flesh between his lips. He placed a soft kiss to one nipple before his tongue darted out to lick it gently. She arched to him, whimpering as he wrapped his lips around her and suckled delicately. Her hands dropped to his shoulders, gripping them, as he worshipped her breasts. He seemed to stay there forever, alternating between them, making sure neither was neglected. The scratchiness of his beard tickled her, but not in a way that would make her want to laugh. No, it made her writhe in his arms, seeking out more of that sweet sensation that sent more wet heat pooling between her legs. She needed him and she couldn’t wait any longer; she reached down between them to his belt, and again, he stopped her.

               “Not here, love. Not our first time,” he purred, hunger and devotion tangling in his gaze.

               He held her to him as he stood to carry her to the bedroom, her legs locked tight around him. The fire he had lit there earlier had completely burned out, but the room was still cozy. He laid her down on the soft duvet, switched on the lamp by the bedside and toed off his shoes before lying by her side. Unwilling to wait, she lifted her head up to kiss him as she curled a leg around him, drawing him to her body. His hand caressed the silky skin of her side to her lower back, the rough pads of his fingers following the ridges of her spine before tangling in her silky tresses. His lips grazed along her jaw and then the shell of her ear, the sound and feel of his impassioned breath brought gooseflesh to her skin again. She had never considered that sensation could be so arousing, but with Jorah, everything he did awakened the woman in her. He kissed along her neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat, licking along the pulse racing under her skin and back to her lips. He suckled at the bottom one before he rasped it gently between his teeth. Her hands were all over him, she couldn’t get enough of the feel of his skin or the erotic way his chest hair tickled her nipples and breasts.

He kissed his way down her body, pausing here and there along the way, nuzzling the softness of her belly, drawing a breathy giggle from her. Her jeans were dealt with in short order, tossed aside to join his shoes. Kneeling between her legs, he was rendered motionless by the goddess lying before him. He nearly wanted to pinch himself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. With her uniquely colored hair fanned out over the pillow, her pale skin and jewel-toned eyes, she was like some ethereal being, a gift from above that he truly didn’t know what he had done to deserve. What seemed like an eternity was only a few moments before his fingers hooked into the waistband of her maroon panties, and with a look that asked permission, she granted it with an eager nod. She lifted her bottom from the bed and he slid them over her hips and down her legs.  She laid bare before him, save for a shy smile. The soft lamplight played with the planes and dips of her body, shadows here and there that he wished to kiss, to touch. Her teeth tucked into her plump bottom lip, worrying it in a way that confirmed for him what she had alluded to during her little game. How could they have rushed _this_ , with her? She had once said he was exceedingly patient, but she didn’t know the half of it.

He caressed the length of her shapely legs tortuously slow, from her delicate ankles along the sleek muscles of her calves and over the tops of her thighs, his thumbs moving down to brush along the sensitive inner skin there. She squirmed under his touch, her skin felt feverish and he hadn’t even touched her _there_ yet. When he started to lie down between her thighs, his face so close to her intimate flesh, Daenerys felt a momentary flash of embarrassment. “Jorah, you-you don’t have to do that. I mean, it’s-”

“Daenerys,” he interrupted her gently, “Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.

“Let me take care of you, love.”

Oh Gods, it was finally going to happen. Something she’d read and fantasized about for what seemed like ages. And she wasn’t about to miss any of it. Propping herself on her elbows, she watched him use his palms to coax her thighs open further. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring, a growl of appreciation rumbling through him at the sight before him. His thumbs ghosted over her short curls and down to her folds, parting them, exposing her a bit more. She saw what he did: swollen, rosy flesh glistening with copious arousal. She had never seen herself like this before. He looked up, and meeting her eyes, uttered one word, “Beautiful.”

She trembled at the raw need she saw there, the unconscious licking of his lips let her know he couldn’t wait to taste her. The first soft kiss had her gasping shakily, the second, open-mouthed and eager, had her moaning wantonly, her head falling back. Jorah was making sounds too, and even though they were muffled, they were decadent. Heady.

He heard her surprised huff of exclamation when he licked at her entrance, her flavour had him moaning in enjoyment. Faintly sweet, a little salty, but all Daenerys. He couldn’t get enough of her nectar and he dipped his tongue inside her, deeper, savoring it from the source. The intimate scent of her filled his nostrils and he had to press his hips into the bed for relief, she smelled so good. He knew one taste would have him hooked like a mortal tasting the ambrosia of the gods. Her body was just as responsive as he had thought, worshiping her breasts had told him that.

Jorah didn’t rush, he took his time, suckling at her nether lips before gathering the fresh surges of wetness from her core. The sensual rasp of his beard against her inner thighs only added to the overwhelming feelings that coursed through her body. She whimpered, “Please”, not even sure what she was begging for; just that she wanted more of _that_.

               When he traced his tongue gently over her clit for the first time, she cried out, her hips jerking hard against his face, but he only met her eyes and did it again, this time with a bit more pressure. She trembled, the feeling of his tongue doing what his fingers had was nearly too much. She watched his mouth moving over her there and it was everything she thought it would be, and infinitely more.  He drew her clit softly between his lips, his tongue licking unhurriedly at her. He spent what seemed like endless minutes building her pleasure slowly, listening to her soft gasps, always followed by a needy whimper. He watched her reactions, alternating the movements of his tongue to find what she enjoyed most.

“That,” she breathed when he flicked her clit fast, one hand reaching out, her fingers tensing rhythmically in his hair, “D--don’t stop…that-”

He loved how she let him know what she wanted and Jorah was a man who could follow orders. He didn’t stop, his tongue giving her what she craved, leading her to the pleasure she so richly deserved. He knew her orgasm was swiftly approaching, her little pearl hardening against his tongue just as it had against his fingers. She rose to meet his questing mouth, her hand clutching at the back of his head, her body falling heavily onto the mattress. Noises were falling from her lips nearly continuously now and occasionally Jorah could hear words like “please” or “yes”. Daenerys wasn’t shy about her desires now, not with the way her hips started rocking against his face or how her sounds of pleasure grew louder.

Looking up her body, he saw the tight hard points of her gorgeous breasts rising and falling rapidly, how her stomach trembled with each tease of her clit. Her free hand twisted the sheets in a tight grip, her breathing growing deep. He wanted her release to coat his tongue and hear his name on her lips. Her whole body went rigid, her thighs tensing against his head, teetering on the precipice…then her head fell back, her orgasm crashing over her. She sobbed his name, her fingers tangling in his soft curls and holding him to her pulsing sex, willing him silently to keep going. He eased her down, slowing the motion of his tongue to draw the last tendrils of bliss from her. Her breath came in quick pants, desperately trying to calm her racing heart. With a gentle parting kiss, he rested his cheek against her inner thigh, his fingers grazing softly over her hips.

Her hands covered her face and her shoulders shook. Jorah blinked at her with a mix of confusion and worry before he rose to his knees. “Daenerys…love, what’s wrong?”

Dropping her arms to the bed, she couldn’t help but laugh out loud now at the look on his face and the concern she heard in his voice. Her amusement ended with a long, happy sigh, “Wow…just _wow._ Now I know why women love that so much.”

His puzzlement shifted into a smirk and he chuckled, “I aim to please, love.”

“Well, you did. _Spectacularly_.”

The need to feel him inside her still thrummed through her body despite the amazing orgasm he had just given her. When her eyes caught sight of him pressed insistently against the fly of his trousers, she said, in a voice low and breathy, “Make love to me, Jorah.”  

               He stood by the bed and unbuckled his belt, slowly pulling it free of the loops. Letting it fall to the floor, he undid the button, followed by the zipper before pulling them, and his black boxer briefs, off. She bit her lip at the sight of him completely naked, her eyes roaming over his lean body, all strong angles and flat planes, to the thatch of ginger curls surrounding his hard cock. He was beautiful there too, the skin of his crown nearly purple and glistening with need, a few veins visible along the thick shaft. Despite the fact that her center throbbed at the thought of him inside her, she gulped before she could stop herself. She had been with men before, but something about _this time_ , with Jorah, made everything feel new and different. 

He noticed the flash of anxiety in her eyes and whispered with a reassuring smile, “We’ll go slow, love.”

She reached her hand out to him and he rejoined her on the bed, settling between her legs. He propped himself on his elbows, so as not to rest too much of his weight on her. Her hand reached down and grasped him, guiding him to her wetness.

“Wait,” he stopped moving, “We don’t have any protection.”

“It’s ok,” she told him softly, “I trust you.”

And she did. She knew Jorah wasn’t the type of man to have indiscriminate, unprotected sex. Besides, she was on the Pill and she’d always been safe with her partners.

They watched together as she brought him to her entrance, her abundant arousal allowing him to slip so easily into her, neither looking away until he was nestled to the hilt.  She exhaled a long breath through pursed lips; it had been a while since she had been with a man, and certainly not one as endowed as Jorah was. Judging by the look on his face, he needed a moment too, for his jaw was clenched and his brow was furrowed as he inhaled and exhaled slowly.

The feel of her tight wet heat engulfing him nearly caused him to lose it right then, it took all of his strength to suppress the urge. The first couple of thrusts were no better; the feel of her sliding so smoothly along his shaft had him groaning already. Her hands gripped at his back, the muscles tensing and flexing under his skin as he held himself above her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the tensing cheeks of his buttocks, helping him establish a rhythm. His thrusts were slow and even, their kisses just as languid, tongues’ gliding over one another’s in an erotic mirror of their bodies. Her soft sounds of pleasure were music to Jorah’s ears; his tender caresses made her arch and tremble beneath him. Their pace continued like this for some time, leisurely savoring the feel of each other and the intense emotions they saw in one another’s eyes. Then he reached down and drew her leg higher up on his body, tilting her hips in such a way that each thrust now stroked across a place clearly no one had ever found. Her eyes went wide, her voice breathless, “Gods, what…”

A slow smile spread across his lips when her words dissolved into a low shaky moan. A part of him couldn’t believe that none of her other lovers had ever discovered this way of intensifying her pleasure. Then again, they had also never tended to her needs in other ways, so he really shouldn’t have been all that surprised. He rolled his hips on his next thrust, her fingers gripping hard to his shoulder blades.

“Do it again,” she whimpered, “please.”

He did and kept doing it, if only so he could hear her throaty cries grow huskier with each deliberate movement of his body within her. He increased the speed of his thrusts slightly when he felt her start to match his cadence. He could feel his orgasm approaching, but he wanted her to come one last time before he finally let go. Her gasping breath warmed his mouth, “I need…”

“Tell me, love,” he panted against her lips.

“Touch me.”

Jorah instinctively knew just where she needed it. Supporting his weight on one shaky arm, he reached down to where they were joined and slowly stroked her slick clit with his thumb. He was losing his control, the finesse his thrusts once had was slipping away. He groaned and increased the speed of the digit against her, needing her to fall over the edge first.

 “I--,” her words were cut short, her back bowing from the bed. Time stopped for an exquisite instant before her sex began to spasm around his cock. He growled at the sensation, the heat of her pulsing along his shaft, slickening his thrusts further. His name fell from her lips, her hands clutching at his back. It was the most magnificent sight Jorah had ever seen, to not only see the pleasure on her beautiful face, but to feel it and hear it too was a memory he would carry with him until his final breath.

This orgasm was different, stronger and deeper than the others, each hard flick of his thumb extending the pleasure. It consumed all thought, turning her insides into blissful tingling jelly. Every nerve in her body felt like a live electrical current and she was dimly aware that he followed her a few fast, hard thrusts later. He held himself deep inside, his release leaving him in long throbs that had him moaning her name against her lips, his eyes tightly shut. He rested his forehead against hers while they both caught their breath, the last pleasurable pulses coursing through them. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to find her gazing at him with ones half-closed, a soft smile of satisfaction on her flushed face. He returned her look with one full of warmth and affection, his fingers softly brushing the damp hairs from her temple, his lips meeting hers in a tender kiss.

They both groaned when he slipped from her body to lay down at her side, drawing her against him, her head resting on his chest. She curled her leg over his hips and cuddled closer, greedy for the warmth he radiated. She marveled at the perfect fit of their bodies as they lay like this; like two long-separated puzzle pieces, finally together once more. In some ways it was as if they had lain together like this in another time and place long ago, searching through time and finding one another at long last. He placed a kiss to the top of her head before he reached over and pulled a blanket over them. Her eyelids felt so heavy, but she did not want to sleep yet. She wanted to enjoy the feel of him, his arm around her, the sound of his steadying heartbeat a bit longer. She decided to rest her eyes a moment, but it was no use, sleep’s call was too strong to ignore. And so, she gave in, falling asleep in the arms of her protector, the man she loved.


	21. In Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys learns the story behind Jorah's nickname, which leads to some passionate sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to send a big 'thank you' to all of my readers. Please know that I adore every comment you leave on my work. Life has become rather stressful and hectic of late, so I haven't been able to keep up with responding the way I had hoped. But it makes me feel all fuzzy inside to know you all enjoy the story.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Explicit erotica

               Jorah rolled to his side, still half-asleep, his arm stretching out into the warm, _empty_ space next to him. That had him wide awake in a hurry. Panic lanced through him, _where was Daenerys?_

               He sat up like a shot and was just reaching over the bedside to grab his jeans when she rounded the corner into the bedroom. She stopped short, “Jorah, everything ok?”

               He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, his shoulders visibly sagging. When he opened them again, she looked worried. He gave her a small smile, “Come under here where it’s warm, love.”

               He held the blanket up for her and she crawled underneath, his arms drawing her in close. He buried his nose in her tousled hair, breathing in deeply of her familiar, calming scent. It had taken his sleep-addled mind a bit to catch up to what he had seen. She was all right, alive and well. There was nothing to panic about. Still, he didn’t lessen his hold. In fact, he tightened it just a little bit briefly.

               Daenerys had never seen that look in Jorah’s eyes before, panicked, almost afraid. He was so composed most of the time. She lifted her head, “You were worried something had happened to me.”

               He gazed down at her, silent at first, his fingertips brushing idly at the soft wisps of hair at her temple. “Yes.”

               There was pain in his eyes as if he’d imagined the worst in those moments when she was gone. She pressed her lips to his, and when she pulled back, she cupped his jaw, “With you by my side, nothing will _ever_ happen to me.”

               She said it so adamantly, with such conviction, Jorah nearly believed it. But he knew deep down he wasn’t perfect and there was always a possibility something could happen to her even if he was right beside her. A well-hidden sniper with deadly accuracy. A lethal poison slipped into her food or drink at a restaurant. A car bomb. _Gods, stop thinking about those things,_ the rational part of Jorah’s brain chided him. He needed to get his mind onto something more-

               “Why did they call you ‘The Bear’?”

               Daenerys provided the distraction for him. She was looking at him with a curious smile on her face, her fingers moving over his cheek and into his hair, carding through it.

               He let out a sigh, “It seems so long ago now. During one particular mission, our battalion was tasked with clearing out a section of the city of insurgents. They were heavily armed and had snipers positioned in some of the second-floor windows. One of my men was shot trying to cross a street to cover. Everyone else had already made it, so I decided to go back. While my men laid down cover fire, I ran back and hoisted him over my shoulder, somehow managing to avoid being shot. They said I looked like a fierce ‘bear’ running across the street, my teeth bared and my eyes flashing. They said I was growling too, although I don’t remember that, it was probably more like groaning under the weight of my injured comrade.”

“I think your nickname suits you. You are fierce, strong, and protective, but you’re like a bear in other ways too. You have soft fur like one,” her fingers running through the hair on his chest, “and you’re cuddly too.”

He chuckled, lifting his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, “You’re the only one that will get away with saying that.” His stomach picked right then to growl loudly.

“It would appear my bear is hungry too.” She went to move out from under the covers, but his arm tightened around her.

“ _My bear,_ ” he repeated, a heart-stopping grin breaking across his face, his thumb brushing over her cheek, “Perhaps I like the nickname after all.”

               He sealed his lips over hers, tender and brimming with love. But kissing her was addictive, and when her tongue darted out and licked at his bottom lip, asking for entrance, he granted it willingly. He lost himself in her and the feel of her body against his.

               When Daenerys broke their kiss, she was giggling. “I thought you were hungry, Jorah.”

               His smile and eyes were full of mischief, “I am.”

               He rose slightly on his elbow and gazed down at her. She’d put on his shirt to go to the bathroom, and as much as he loved to see her wearing something he had, he wanted to see only _her_. Just three secured buttons lay between him and her bare skin and he was growing impatient. The first one he undid revealed the valley between her breasts and his head dipped to brush his lips against the soft rise of each, in turn, his beard rasping against her in the best possible way. Her laugh was breathy, her eyes dancing with the same amusement.

“You like when I do that.”

               She nodded. “It tickles…in a good way.”

               He filed that away for later and continued on, the other buttons slipping free with a twist of his fingers. Using his nose to push the offending garment out of the way, he exposed one breast, her nipple well on its way to being hard and he knew just how to get it there. Cupping her flesh, he kneaded it, spreading the heat radiating from his palm. His mouth descended, lips plucking and worrying the now ripe berry, tongue circling and laving. Daenerys’ back rose from the bed, pushing into his kiss, seeking more.

               Jorah may have told her he was a legs man, but her breasts were perfect and he might have to change his choice. In all honesty, he loved _every_ part of her, from her silky uniquely colored hair to her cute little toes. It was those appendages that curled against his calf, her leg tightening at his side whenever he suckled with just the right pressure. He continued his journey down her body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her belly, and lower, nuzzling at her inner thigh as he settled between her legs. The early morning light was softened further by the drapes, but his eyes had adjusted to the dimness and they traveled over her leisurely, stopping at the curls in front of him. Now she was the impatient one, eyes pleading, her hips wiggling closer.

               “Jorah,” she breathed, “I need…”

               “What, love?”

               The warm exhale of his breath heated her core further, a flutter echoing deep within. She huffed a breath of her own, one of frustration. _He knows what I want, why do I have to say it?_ “I want you to do what you did last night.”

               “Do what?” An arched eyebrow accompanied his teasing smirk.

               She closed her eyes hard, licked her lips, then met his gaze head on, her tone still hesitantly soft, “I want you to put your mouth on me.”

               He was about to ask her where, but that last question hadn’t been easy for her. Aspects of this whole experience were still new to her, voicing her desires was clearly one of them. He relented and it wasn’t just because he didn’t have the heart to tease her anymore. He wanted to do what she asked so softly for as much as she needed him to do it. Grasping her hips, he drew her down until her legs curled over his shoulders, his hands slipping under her bottom to tilt her to his lips. He started with soft kisses, but when his lips came back slick with her, he groaned and ran his tongue over the length of her sex in a long swipe. Her legs shook and nearly fell back to the bed, her startled gasp had Jorah meeting her eyes. She swallowed roughly, “Do it again.”

               He did, but slower, savoring the satiny texture of her skin there, the smooth glide of her arousal on his tongue, her soft curls tickling the tip of his nose, her hard little jewel. She was a symphony of delights for his senses, his entire being consumed by her. Jorah knew he could intensify her pleasure as he had last night and he pulled his right hand free, teasing her entrance with his index finger, watching her face to make sure it was all right.

               She seemed to understand his intention and nodded. He held her gaze and slipped slowly, easily, inside, the silken heat of her walls clutching at him in greeting. While it wasn’t like he was searching for it, he knew when he found it because her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped open on a moan. He curled his finger against her, lightly at first, then a bit harder, experimenting to see what she liked best. All the while, he continued to tease her clit, relishing in the little flutters around his teasing digit. Her fingers found their way into his hair when he stroked her just right, her body pressing down into the blissful torment of his mouth and finger.

               “Like that,” she panted when his tongue swirled and flicked with more purpose, the pad of his finger stroking with a perfect, rhythmic pressure.

               If she kept ordering him in that breathy voice, he might lose it like an inexperienced teenager. She had been shy about him pleasuring her this way, but no longer. And Jorah was secretly thrilled. He loved looking up her body from between her quivering thighs, over the seemingly endless expanse of smooth, pale skin to her face. Gods, her face. Beautiful, contorted in pleasure and lips parted, her little mewls and sharp gasps were the sweetest melody. She trembled, her body twisting and arching with a particularly husky moan that had his cock twitching. He knew now what proceeded that glorious sound and he flicked his tongue faster.

               The swell of her around his finger, then that wonderous throb. Somewhere amongst her erratic breaths, his name snuck out, her thighs tightening against his head to muffle any further sounds. He could have grinned if his mouth hadn’t been busy. The hot, slick rush of her peak covered his finger and he worked her through until she couldn’t take any more, her hands pushing him away with soft giddy laughter.

               He slipped his finger from her gently, the sight of her glistening there had him groaning appreciatively. The flush painting her cheeks and chest deepened, her bottom lip tucking between her teeth, her eyes shyly darting away before looking back as he put the digit into his mouth to suck and lick it clean.

Watching him do that, watching the way he licked his lips afterward, his beard shiny with her, sent need coursing through her once more. She practically pulled him up her body before pushing him onto his back, swinging her leg over his hips. Kneeling over him, she ducked her head and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue. They broke apart for breath, her teeth softly nipping his bottom lip before she moved down to his neck, a particularly sensitive area she had discovered last night. His hands reached out, finding she still wore his shirt. He pulled it from her with her help, her lips still managing to torment the strong column of his throat. Cupping her breasts in his large hands succeeded in breaking her concentration, her slick center pressing against the skin of his abdomen. She continued on, experimentally flicking his pebbled nipple with her tongue, his soft exclamation of her name had her meeting his eyes. Her lips sealed around it, teeth grazing, his throat rolling at the action. Shifting down and straightening, she watched her fingertips as they brushed over his chest and stomach to his cock, jutting proudly from his body. She had thought he was beautiful last night and it was the same now, her hand enclosing him in a tender grasp. Jorah gasped, his hips jerking up from the bed. Daenerys noticed how he watched her intently, his hands clenching beside him.

               Daenerys had never been with a man who let her do what she wanted, who didn’t try to control the situation. And while she had touched previous partners like this, it had always felt like an obligation, not a desire. This, with Jorah, felt special. And the sounds he made completed the picture. His breathy groans, low in his chest, with each stroke of her hand, had hot wetness gathering between her legs. His own glistening bead of desire formed at the tip, her thumb collecting it with a slow sweep over the ruddy crown. She brought her hand up to look at it before bringing it to her mouth, her lips closing around it to do what he had done. Slightly salty, but purely male, she found she liked the way Jorah tasted.

               “Daenerys.” The gravelly timbre of his voice washed over her, and if she loved the way Jorah had said her name before, it did _wonderful_ things to her body now. She remembered how good it felt to straddle his lap and grind against him, now, she wanted to experience that with no barriers between them. She moved until she settled intimately against him, his cock slipping between her folds. They gasped, her hand seeking out his own for support against the strength of the sensation. Their fingers entwined as she began to move, rocking back and forth, a craving to have him buried inside her again building low in her belly.

               “Jorah,” she moaned, her hips jerking at the hot, velvety slide of his thick shaft. Jorah seemed to have no problem with her using his body to pleasure herself. It looked, and felt, like he was enjoying it too, lifting his hips just enough at the right moment, the ridge of the head catching the underside of her clit perfectly. Her body instinctively pressed harder into his thrusts and the motion had him hissing and cursing under his breath. She loved to see this normally composed man a little out of control. And she had never considered cursing to be sexy, but Jorah made it sound like the most erotic poetry.

Despite the fact that he’d already seen to her pleasure, she was quickly on the edge of another orgasm. He could see it on her face, how her eyes struggled to stay open, how her body trembled each time he slid over her swollen jewel. Gods, she felt so good, her wetness coating his cock, so abundant it seeped down to his tightening sac. She ground down harder, her short nails scraping at his shoulder, her fingers tightening against his grip.

               “Fuck,” he gasped roughly, his hand grasping her hip suddenly.

               She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, the sound of the expletive on Jorah’s lips made her sex clench. Lost in the sea of her desire, she felt powerful, in charge and any residual shyness vanished in the unguarded hunger burning in Jorah’s eyes.

“Gods, I need you inside me,” she breathed, lifting up on her knees to guide him into her. Despite her arousal, she stopped halfway down, her brows tensing.

“All right love?”

His voice sounded strained, but he made no move to rush her.

She nodded slowly, sliding down a bit more, but stopping again, her hand slipping from his to brace on his shoulder. She exhaled through pursed lips. “It’s just, you feel… _deeper…_ than before.”

“Am I hurting you?” His hand left her hip to cup her face lovingly. He looked so concerned, so worried for her comfort that it had warmth blossoming in her chest.

“No, my bear,” she leaned into his large palm, “You could never hurt me.”

He gifted her that special smile of his, then lifted his head to press his lips against hers. The kiss helped distract her as she slid the rest of the way down until their curls met and mingled. She paused, resting their foreheads together, sharing one breath, his hand sliding over her back in a soothing caress.

The first slow rise and fall of her hips was tentative, jerky, and a bit awkward. But it had her eyelashes fluttering, her eyes going unfocused. There was a promise of pleasure lurking amidst the rapidly vanishing discomfort and she clung to it like she did his shoulders, using them for leverage.

Her movements grew surer, but she didn’t quicken her pace, her body acclimating itself to this new position. It gave her the control in the situation; this strong man had no problem surrendering to her. It didn’t diminish his masculinity in her eyes, no, it only made it stronger. And once she had finally fully adjusted, when every quickening rise and fall had her whimpering, Daenerys didn’t hold back. She’d fantasied about taking him like this: hands braced on his sweaty chest, riding him hard and fast until they moaned their release in chorus. And she did just that, the sound their bodies made was obscene, the bedframe creaking underneath them. And it aroused her no end. She was desperate, eager, seeking the dizzying rush of pleasure he always gave her. She’d never wanted a man like this, a need so great she wondered if she’d ever get enough of him.

               Jorah didn’t seem to mind one bit that she was taking him almost selfishly, in fact, he seemed to encourage her passion. He willingly let her have her way with him. But he wasn’t passive by any means, his hands roamed her body, caressing her hips, bottom and tensing thighs. He cupped and kneaded her breasts, teased her nipples. She grabbed one of his hands and brought it down to where they were joined, pressing his thumb against her clit. “Make me come, Jorah.”

               _Good Gods_. As if he wouldn’t.   

               “Take your pleasure from me, Daenerys.” His hand held her hip tight, helping her maintain the rhythm they both needed, the pad of his thumb pressing and circling against her swollen flesh.

Jorah knew just how to touch her and the memory of their twined fingers between her legs flashed in her mind’s eyes, her walls fluttering around his shaft. He made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, his hips snapping up into hers, burying him hard and deep within her. Her short nails bit into his chest, her voice pleading for him to _do it again_.

               He met her thrust for thrust now, their panted breath mingling with the sound of skin against skin. His fingertips pressed into the supple flesh of her hip; his release was swiftly approaching. He hoped Daenerys’ was too.

               “I can’t--hold back,” he gritted out.

               “Don’t,” she exhaled, her head falling back, her body seizing above him. He groaned, her walls spasming around his pulsing cock. She found her rhythm again, rocking against him, her body trembling, her fingers pressing against his thumb to keep it where she needed it, extending her bliss.

               She fell forward suddenly, catching herself on shaky arms, trying to catch her breath. Jorah lay there panting too, eyes hooded, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. She shivered with lingering aftershocks as Jorah’s softening manhood slipped from her. Only then did she collapse on him, his arms enfolding her in a lazy embrace. His thundering heart slowly calmed beneath her ear as she melted into him, their skin sticky with sweat. As much as she loved being physically intimate with Jorah, she loved the afterglow, the feeling of connection and oneness in his arms. He placed soft kisses to the crown of her head, his fingers carding through her hair to brush down her damp back.

               It was only a short time later that she moved, the slight chill of the room finally getting to her. She groped blindly for the blanket, but couldn’t seem to find it. Jorah chuckled beneath her, “Here, love.” His longer arm easily reached what hers couldn’t, drawing it over them. She snuggled against him, letting out a satisfied sigh.

               Once she was warmer, she lifted her head from his chest and met his gaze with a hint of shyness, “I’ve never been like that before.” His brow crinkled, “I’ve never been on top before,” her blush deepened, “Never talked like that before.”

               The backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek, “There’s no need to be embarrassed, love.”

               “I just…you bring out a side of me I never knew was there.” She worried her lip, “Is it always like that?”

               “Passionate?” She nodded. “It can be. Desire is…it’s what you feel in that moment. It can be needy, rapturous. Other times, tender, gentle.”

               “I really love what we just did,” her eyes bright with an easily recognizable fire. It was the strength of her love; Daenerys’ emotions were unlike any he’d ever experienced. But he loved the depth of that emotion. It felt good to be wanted and needed so much by someone. The strength of his love for her was just as great, it was his way of expressing it that was different.

               “So did I,” he answered, smiling.

               She nuzzled his chest and got comfortable against him, her arm and leg draped over him. He held her close, loving the feel of her body against his side.

               “What was your ex-wife like?”

               The question was so out of the blue, just as he was drifting off to sleep, that he stiffened beneath her. She felt the change in him instantly and lifted her head, “I’m sorry, you don’t-”

               “No, love, it’s all right.” He could feel her staring at him. He swallowed roughly meeting her eyes, “She was _nothing_ like you.” It was a simple answer that spoke volumes. And she wasn’t expecting him to say anything else until he did, “We were happy for a short time and then it…it just fell apart.”

               Daenerys had seen this pain in Jorah’s eyes before, but only briefly, and she wondered how someone could have hurt a sweet, loving man like him.

               “I haven’t spoken about her in years, haven’t really thought about her in just as long. It was a whirlwind romance, intense and tumultuous. We married much too soon and discovered that we had two very different personalities that didn’t complement each other well. A few months into marriage and we were fighting almost constantly. The only thing that really connected us was-” He stopped himself before he said it, but Daenerys figured it out on her own. 

               “How did it end,” she asked quietly.

               “She left me for another man.”

               Her heart ached imagining Jorah finding out that awful truth. She reached up and turned his face to hers, the look in his eyes only made it worse. She wanted to say she was sorry, but for what? It wasn’t her fault; she hadn’t been the one to break his heart like that. And Daenerys knew she never would. She could never see herself cheating on Jorah, he was everything to her. So she simply held him, letting him hold her back. And she couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn she felt a tear fall onto her forehead.


	22. An Ordinary Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah find ways to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Feels, Fluff, and Explicit Erotica (everything Daenerys and Jorah deserve, tbh)

A day passed and no news. Then another and still no updates on her father’s condition or the whereabouts of the two escaped men. But it was a strange thing, Daenerys had only occasional passing thoughts about the man who hadn’t really earned the title. She was distracted and blissfully so. Their budding relationship was new and wonderous and she had never felt this way for someone before. How she hadn’t seen the affection in the softness of his blue eyes, the care in even the most fleeting or chivalrous of touches, she wasn’t sure. But she did now. Perhaps opening her own heart and uttering those three profound words had lifted the veil and finally let her see the love behind Jorah’s actions. Her earlier assumptions about Jorah turned out to be true too. He made everything they did together, every kiss, every touch, feel special. She had always felt a connection to him that she couldn’t explain, only now, it was on a much deeper level. Intimately, he was gentle and attentive, placing the fulfillment of her desires before his own. And he was most definitely a cuddler. Her very own sweet, protective bear.

In the quiet early morning hours, while Jorah slept beside her, she listened to the soothing drum of his heart and imagined they were far from any sort of danger. That there weren’t people out to get her, that she was an ordinary woman cuddled up with the man she loved, living an ordinary life, in an ordinary house. But most importantly, their relationship was ordinary. They hadn’t met under difficult circumstances, she had never been almost poisoned, never been an almost victim of a kidnapping. That Jorah had never been stabbed. That they had normal jobs, Jorah perhaps the head of security somewhere, she an artist. Daenerys pictured them meeting by chance on a drizzly street corner or in a cozy coffee shop, Jorah wearing a fisherman’s sweater the color of sheep’s wool paired with dark-wash jeans. There was no doubt in her mind that, with his beautiful, kind blue eyes and gentlemanly demeanor, she would have been instantly smitten.

               They ate, talked and played board games to pass the time they spent outside of the bedroom. Daenerys helped him change his bandages and learned how to clean a firearm. They stayed in bed late, cuddling beneath the blankets and sharing tender kisses. He didn’t always intend to arouse her, but managed to anyway. It didn’t lead to anything further every time though, she simply enjoyed being able to touch and kiss him whenever the notion struck her. Apparently, Jorah did too. She enjoyed this side of him, a bit playful and very free with his affection. He had kept it so well hidden despite the fact that his eyes always gave away everything he was feeling. He’d let the guard around his heart completely slip away, and it was in those moments of closeness, sitting by the fire or nestled in his arms, that he finally told her a bit about the war and the men he had served with on the Special Forces squad. The very men who had gone in and rescued her father. Thoros, a man who loved to drink, but was lethally accurate as a sniper. Beric, the man who seemed to have nine lives, the flames he’d painted on his rifle’s stock as a joke became his trademark.  Gendry, young but tough and the fastest person he’d ever met. Sandor, who went by ‘The Hound’ now, swore like a sailor and was a fiend for chicken, but in the thick of battle, fought without fear. And, lastly, Tormund, the massive Norwegian with hair like fire. A bit of a wild man, but an excellent soldier. Daenerys noticed he kept his stories on the lighter side, avoiding the heavier topics. She understood though, he had likely seen and done things that were hard to talk about and digging up those memories would be painful, so she didn’t push him. If he ever did want to tell her, she would be there to listen.

Daenerys talked about her mother and the fantasy tales she weaved through word and paint, she the inspiration for a strong yet gentle-hearted queen in that imaginary world. And, in a quiet voice, she told him more about Viserys. Jorah already knew about the horrible plan he had for her, how he had wanted to use her for his own gain. But there was another piece to the puzzle he hadn’t learned yet. She told him how her brother had grown into her father’s doppelgänger, both emotionally and physically, abusive on both counts, but mostly the former. Jorah had gathered Viserys used his words to hurt her, but she had never revealed that he had used his fists as well. It broke his heart. How could anyone have ever hurt her? A long time ago, Jorah had been hurt too, but not to the extent or manner that Daenerys had. His had been a short-lived marriage to a woman who used manipulation to get what she wanted, who had twisted love into something that it didn’t even resemble anymore. And that was how, from the start, Jorah knew that what he felt for Daenerys was real and true.

***

“Mind if I join you?”

               Jorah turned at the sound of her voice, “Of course not.”

               Daenerys slipped through the partially open door and closed it behind her. She started to undress, her eyes occasionally meeting his as each article of clothing dropped to the floor, leaving her in only the necklace he had given her.

               “Beautiful.”

               Despite the amorous activities of the previous days, she still managed to blush prettily at his whispered admission. The light in the bathroom was far brighter than the bedroom had been, the sun shining through the small window above the shower. She stood in its shaft of diffuse light and a sudden wave of shyness hit her at his open appraisal of her nudity, causing her to look away.

               “Not beautiful everywhere.”

               He tilted his head at her and she answered his silent question with a tilt of her own, the right side of her neck now exposed. The raised scar was stark white in the light and his heart clenched at the memory of what had happened to her.

               “That’s where you’re wrong, love,” he approached her slowly, the pad of his thumb caressing the mark, “You are even more beautiful here.”  

               She looked up at him, their height difference all the more evident the closer he stood to her. His gaze was unwavering and honest, and in his eyes, she saw just how perfect he thought she was. Warmth flooded her chest and she drew a shaky breath, her hands trembling as they parted the sides of the shirt that hung open on him and rested against his pectorals. She pushed the fabric over his shoulders and down his arms, the cuffs stopping it from falling to the floor. Her eyes left his and he drew a deep lungful of air at her curious scrutiny of his torso. It had been so long since a woman just wanted to _look_ and _feel_ him and he was not about to stop her, the sensation of her simply touching him one of the most sensual things they had done together. She read him like a map, her fingers delicately tracing the strong lines and muscled curves, learning him. A raised scar by his right clavicle, a flat dull pink one in the notch between two of his ribs on his left side that made his muscles contract with a short gasping chuckle. She glanced up at him, her bottom lip between her teeth as she fixed him with a mischievous look, surely filing away that discovery for later. Her eyes then went back to following her hands, taking her time in their exploration of his body’s topography and cataloguing his old, healed wounds.

               “I’m a mess,” his words breaking through the spell around them, “and these are just the ones you can see.”

               “Now who’s wrong?” Her hands splayed on his chest, “These scars are your story,” then she slid one hand over to rest gently on his bandaged bicep, “and I want to read every chapter.”

               He arched one eyebrow, “It’s quite a long book.”

               Her lips came within millimetres of his, “I’m a voracious reader.”

               She pressed a quick kiss to his smiling lips before she stepped back, surveying his semi-nude state, “You’re much too over-dressed for a shower.”

               She watched him remove the rest of his clothes, her eyes widening ever so slightly at his semi-erect cock, “Is he always like that?”

               He smirked. “Only around you, love.”

               He turned and pulled back the shower curtain, the steam that had been trapped behind it wafting into the room. He stepped into the tub first and held out his hand to her, which she took and joined him under the spray. They took turns washing each other’s hair, the feel of his fingers gently massaging her scalp both relaxing and arousing. The body wash became the catalyst for unearthing their ticklish spots, his on his left side as she had already discovered and hers nearly everywhere he seemed to tease. She tried to push him away, her sides aching from laughter until he took her hands in one of his own and held them above her head, pressing her to the cool tile with his warm body. She gasped; his eyes were full of playful fire and Daenerys found she wanted to burn. She instinctively knew he would never hurt her and would let go the instant she asked him to, but that was the furthest thing from her mind right then.

Her body rolled under his, the sensations rippling down her spine and across her nerves causing wetness to seep from her center, the slickness of it spreading across her inner thighs. Only two rounds with this glorious man had made her utterly shameless in her desire, a height of arousal she had never reached with her previous lovers. 

“Jorah,” she sighed, her head lolling against the tile as she ground her center on his muscular thigh. Between the swirling steam and the feel of his body, her mind was a haze, and in that moment, she would have agreed to any pleasurable suggestion he offered.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her, an affectionate fascination dancing in those baby blues, “I have _never_ known a woman like you, Daenerys. Every sensation you feel, I see it on your face and I hear it in your voice.” He kissed her tenderly, his tongue teasing with hers, his hand moving from where it rested above her head to join the other in a slippery caress of her body, “I want to hear my name on your lips again, love. It is the sweetest,” he ghosted his lips over her jaw to her ear, “ _sexiest_ sound I have ever heard.”

Her brow crinkled; _could he really give her **another** orgasm? Was that even possible?_

He seemed to know what she was thinking, “A woman’s body is capable of near-infinite pleasure and I want to give you all that you can possibly handle.”

 She quivered at his words and gave herself over to his expertise with an arch of her breasts into his large hands. He kneaded them gently, gauging the weight of them in his palms before he dropped his head to lick her. From this angle, she had the perfect view of his tongue, nearly the same shade as her puckered flesh, circling and slowly flicking, her skin there no longer wet simply from the water.

“Oh,” her short exhalation had him opening his eyes and holding the wide gaze of her violet ones, his lips closing around the nipple and the surrounding flesh, drawing on it with a soft suck. Her hands flew to his hair, holding him to her for more. 

Her nails bit into his scalp when his teeth grazed her, and with one parting sweep of his tongue, he kissed a path to her other breast. The patience this man had stunned her, the time he spent worshiping her breasts alone was so new to her. His fingers trailed over the subtle indent of her waist to the gentle flare of her hip and around to the slope of her lower back, tracing the hollows there. Cupping one cheek in his large hand, he gave it a delicate squeeze. Sweeping into the cleft of her bottom, his digits dipped down to her center, teasing her entrance until her slickness coated his fingertips, then he drew them softly over her tingling clit.

“Please, I need…” she whimpered, her smoldering gaze disappearing behind her eyelids, her neck arching as she sought more of his touch. She searched for it with her hips, desperately wanting him to touch her with more pressure.

More than willing to grant any request she made, he whispered against her lips, “Tell me, Daenerys. What do you need, love?”

“I need your fingers inside me, on…on my clit.”

There was no self-consciousness in her eyes as she held his heated gaze and made her erotic desire known. This man made her feel daring and she relished in her newfound confidence when it came to sex.

He claimed her lips with a groan, his hand slipping between her legs to fulfill her wish. Two thick digits slipped between her slick lips, softly probing her before sliding back to circle her swollen nub. Her body surged against him and a strangled high moan issued from her throat, her short nails scraping over his shoulders. He watched her experience her pleasure, the flare of her nostrils, the faint tense and release of her brow with each slow orbit of her clit, the quick dart of the tip of her pink tongue against her full lips. He wanted her so close to the edge of bliss that only a few thrusts of his fingers within her would have her shattering for him.

The slow pace was torture for them both and Daenerys felt herself grow impatient. The head of his cock brushed her belly and she grasped the base of him, stroking the hard thick length.

“Fuck,” his throaty whisper hot against her lips, his hips jerking in her soft yet firm grip.

“I want to make you come for me, Jorah.”

He nearly lost it at her soft sweet voice, his fragile control already frayed to the breaking point at the feel of her abundant wetness. She matched the rhythm of his fingers, her wrist adding a slight twist over the glans with each stroke, spreading the shiny drops of his arousal over the velvety flesh on the way down to his curls. He shuddered against her and his pace faltered. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman did this for him and the knowledge that it was _this_ beautiful woman in front of him that held not only his tumescent flesh in her loving grasp, but also his heart, made it all the more meaningful.

Jorah felt the pleasure coalesce at the base of his spine, drawing his sac tighter to his body, the pull of his breath becoming a near pant. But Daenerys was right there with him, her body quaking against his, her voice taking on a needy tone. Unable to wait any longer, he slipped two fingers into her and curled them just so, his thumb resuming his previous activity.

“Gods, Jorah,” her hips riding his hand, her hold on him tightening as her own rhythm over him wavered.

His touch was perfect: the pressure, the tempo. Every thrust caught the trough of a receding tingling wave, building the crest of the next higher. Each time he withdrew his fingers, the slickness seemed to grow exponentially, trickling down onto his palm.  

“Let go, Daenerys.”

She was a keening, mumbling mess. The ardently murmured words in his deep, rich voice coupled with the passionate fire raging in his eyes made the tight hot spiral in her belly coil so taut she thought it might snap her in two. Her hand stroked him faster, moving by instinct now. His hips rolled with her touch and she felt him hardened further. The backs of her fingers brushed his tight sac and he moaned low in his chest, “Love, I-”

His accent broke through, and that, combined with all that his hand was doing between her legs sent her over the edge. Her head tipped back with a loud gasp, her body going rigid before her knees buckled and she fell back against the tile, shuddering with hot pulses, his name a long drawn out moan. His hips lurched forward one last time, the scalding heat of his release erupting onto her belly in thick spurts as he thrust into her stilled hand, unable to do anything but move reflexively, groaning and trying to breathe. His hand slammed against the tile by her head in an attempt to keep his heavy body from crushing her, his arm shaking from the effort. She stroked him gently now, drawing the remaining essence from his softening length. She whimpered, his hand still moving delicately within her. She pressed her own against his chest, “I can’t…too much.”

“I know what you mean, love,” he breathed through a chuckle before he gasped and pulled his hips back from her loose grasp. He leaned in to kiss her, slow and tender, their hands softly caressing each other’s still heated skin. Basking in the afterglow, he murmured endearments to her and she responded with ones of her own.

               Leaning over to turn off the water, he reached outside of the shower to retrieve two large fluffy towels, wrapping one around her shoulders. Ruffling his hair with his own, he dried his torso then drew it around his waist. She watched him secure it, her head tilted to the side, puzzled as it remained in place as if by magic, “How do you get it to stay there like that? Whenever I do it, it always falls down right after.”

               He chuckled. “One of the great mysteries of the world.”

               She hummed in response and set to drying herself off, Jorah’s hands coming to her aid, rubbing the towel over her arms and back. Daenerys didn’t need the help, but let him do it anyway, loving the feel of him touching her no matter the reason why. Pulling back the curtain, he held her hand as they exited the tub before opening the door and getting their bag. Out of the corner of his eye he studied her as he dressed, watching the oddly sensual act of her putting the clothes she had worn that first day _on_ : the smooth play of lithe muscle beneath her creamy skin, the slight shimmy of her hips as she pulled on her panties and jeans, the hardening of her nipples from the coolness of the room and not the amorous attentions of his hands or mouth before they disappeared behind the lacy fabric of her bra, and the stretch of her body as she eased her shirt over her head. His cock twitched at the sight of her and he wondered if he would ever have enough of her. _Never_ , he decided, pressing the heel of his hand stealthily against his groin.

               Taking her comb from the counter, she started to run it through her long damp locks.

               “Here,” he offered, “let me.”

               He held out his hand and she arched an eyebrow, but handed it to him anyway.

               Stepping behind her, he started at the bottom, delicately working through the tangles. She sighed, her eyes closing in bliss. The only person who had ever done this for her had been her mother, but that was so many years ago, a distant hazy memory. There was something so soothing about the rhythm of it, the feel of the tines rasping softly over her scalp. It lulled her into an almost drowsy state and she muttered, “When did you get so good at this?”

                When he didn’t respond, she opened her eyes and met his in the mirror. There was a sadness in them and a solemn edge to his voice, “I’m not so sure you want to know.”

               Reaching for his hand that rested on her shoulder, she held it, “I do, tell me.”

               The brush stilled halfway down the length of her tresses then his arm dropped to his side, “When my ex-wife and I were first married, I used to do this for her. It wasn’t long before she didn’t even want me to do that anymore.”

               “What happened,” she asked quietly.

               “Life happened. When I needed her most, she wasn’t there. The true test of love is what the other person does when things are hard and your back is against the wall. Then you find out who’s really in your corner.”

               “I’m sorry, Jorah.”

               He chuckled derisively, “Why are you apologizing? It’s not your fault.”

               “I know, but I still feel bad,” her violet gaze was intense and sure as it met his in the reflection again, “You’re a good man and you deserve better than that.”

               Swallowing roughly against the emotions trapped in his throat, he resumed his previous activity. They watched one another in the mirror, the top of her head barely reaching the underside of his chin. Surrounded by his tall form, he made her feel utterly safe _and_ loved, the feelings coalescing into a heady mix. Her other bodyguards had done a satisfactory enough job, but with Jorah, she felt he would do _anything_ to keep her out of harm’s way. He divided her hair into three equal sections before setting the styling tool on the counter.

               “You know how to braid too. Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

               She saw the dimple on his cheek as he started to cross the sections over and under, “Now, mind you, it won’t look half as neat or good as the one you do, but it will suffice.”

               “I don’t care. It’s the mere fact that you’re doing it. It’s a quiet expression of love and that makes it all the more meaningful.”

               “That’s exactly right,” he whispered against her ear, “Because I do love you, Daenerys.”

               With the braid left half-finished, she turned in his arms and kissed him. It wasn’t a sweet kiss, but it also wasn’t a lustful one of desire. It was somewhere in between, a physical outpouring of their feelings for one another. Full of hope, tender care, and incandescent happiness. Cocooned in this joyful bubble, neither wanted to part, but the need for air forced them to. They caught their breath, foreheads resting together.

               “Do you know what else is a simple act of love?”

               She shook her head softly.

               “Cooking someone dinner. I know military rations aren’t five-star dining, but we can make it into something even better.”

               With a smile, she said, “Lead the way, Chef Mormont. I have one condition though.”

               “What’s that?”

               “I get to be your sous chef.”

               He couldn’t help but laugh, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	23. One Thing Remains The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah spend their last day at the safehouse and returning home opens old wounds, but Jorah helps Daenerys stay in the moment with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wonderful, long chapter awaits, no more stalling.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Sweet fluff, a double dose of erotica, and a wee bit of angst.

The first thing Daenerys felt as she drifted from sleep was Jorah pressing tender kisses to the back of her neck. Smiling drowsily, she closed her eyes to the sensations: the scratchiness of his beard, the warmth of his lips and breath over her skin, the way it set her nerves alight all the way to her toes. Then his hand joined in, caressing the contours of her ribcage to her breast, molding to the supple flesh, his thumb and forefinger gently rolling the hardened little peak. He followed the line of her spine, each prominence receiving a soft lick after each kiss. The flat of his hand trailed over the subtle arch of her stomach to rest at her hip, his tongue finding one of the dimples just above the swell of her bottom. He traced the outline, which had Daenerys gasping, her hips pressing back for more. Jorah's husky rumble of amusement sent fire through her bloodstream, slickness building quickly between her legs.

“Jorah,” she exclaimed softly when his teeth nipped her once, but it was nowhere near hard enough to leave any mark on the pale cheek. He was being playful; a side of Jorah Daenerys was discovering she _really_ liked. He dipped his hand down, his fingers teasing in her damp curls, his tongue finding her other dimple. She needed his touch lower, and he seemed to know, her soft moan marrying with his deeper one at his discovery of how aroused she was for him. Slippery fingers circled her pearl, her little mewls of pleasure had Jorah pushing onto his elbow so he could see her face. It was a beautiful mask of erotic rapture, her eyelids closed, lips softly parted.

“ _Khaista_ ”, he whispered, “look at me.”

She met his loving, amorous gaze, watching him move a bit further down the bed. His fingers slid from her slick flesh, his hand curling around her thigh to draw her leg over his shoulder. Her body slumped back onto the mattress, relinquishing to the attentions of Jorah's mouth. He brought her to her peak slowly, wanting them both to savor every moment. And when the pleasure, at last, broke over her in tingling, warm waves, she uttered his name with soft, sweet abandon.

Once it had subsided and her breathing had evened, Jorah joined her at her side. His desire for her was plainly evident, and while they didn't have time for what Daenerys truly wanted, they had time enough for something else. She pressed him onto his back, pausing to explore his strong torso on her way down his body, Jorah's eyes widening at her intention. He tried to tell her she didn't have to, that he didn’t need her to do that, but she simply smirked, gathered her hair over one shoulder, and took him slowly into her mouth. She wanted Jorah this way, wanted to know his body the way he knew hers. With him, it felt like just another expression of their love, not some obligation. His hands never forced her or tried to control her, they stayed at his sides, clenching at the sheets. Soon, he was panting and groaning, trying to warn her of his impending release, but she didn't stop, rather, she held his gaze and kept going. His pleasingly masculine essence spilled onto her tongue as she worked him through his peak, his breathless intonation of her name sounded vaguely awed. And when she made her way to his side, he cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her. She was a bit surprised, her previous partners never wanted to after she had done that. Jorah didn’t seem to care, his tongue dancing eagerly with hers. His kiss left her breathless, his devastatingly gorgeous smile left her with that familiar warmth blooming in her chest. Oh, how she loved him. He drew her close, enfolding her in his arms, their legs tangling beneath the blankets. He looked into her eyes, whispering how much he loved her. Tears threatened to fall but didn't as she nuzzled her face in his pectoral, imprinting his scent in her mind. Her murmured response had him humming contentedly, his fingers skimming over her shoulder blade in soothing, rhythmic strokes. They were set to leave that day, but clearly, Jorah wanted the same thing she did: to linger just a little longer, safe and far from danger, cocooned in the warmth of their love.

“Jorah,” she said after a while, lifting her head, “What’s _Ki-sta_?”

“ _Khaista_ ,” he gently corrected with a soft smile, his eyes tracking over her features, his thumb brushing her cheek, “It means ‘beautiful’ in Pashto.”

Daenerys felt her eyes begin to sting again, her smile so big she knew her dimples must be showing. “My sweet bear,” she breathed, resting her forehead against his. They stayed that way for several long minutes, content to simply just _be_. But each moment that passed brought them closer to the inevitable and she felt a sudden sharp pang in her chest. “I don’t want to leave, Jorah.”

He opened his eyes to find hers worried. “I don’t either, love.” He kissed her softly on the forehead, then the tip of her nose, and finally on her lips before he continued, “But we have to.”

She sighed, “Then can we stay just a little longer?”

He nodded, gathering her in his arms and drawing the blankets closer around them. She snuggled into his embrace, further into the warm cocoon he had created for them. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world but her, and truth be told, Jorah had no real desire to go back. This time alone with her had been freeing, he didn’t have to be on alert every single moment and he didn’t have to keep his emotions under wraps for fear they would hinder his ability to protect her. He could open his heart, let her see and feel just how deeply he loved her, just how much she meant to him. It was liberating to love her, so unlike any kind of love he had ever experienced. What he had felt for his ex-wife was _nothing_ compared to his feelings for Daenerys. With her, the emotions felt too big for his body, the need to touch her in some small way was nearly overpowering.

Lying there, listening to her breathing, watching her fingertips weave random patterns through the fur on his chest, he imagined them running away together, taking the money her father had given him and heading north to find a small cottage hidden away in the country to live out the rest of their days. He had no doubt Daenerys would say ‘yes’, she had asked him the very same question not so long ago. But would she be safe? Would the threat against her ever truly be gone? Jorah knew what it would take for that to become a reality and he didn’t want to dwell on it further. He wanted to savor these last quiet moments with her and enjoy the feel of her in his arms before things changed. Because he knew some things likely would. 

An hour later, unable to put off the return trip any longer, they dressed, ate, and gathered their few belongings. Jorah drove them back to London, but he was clearly in no hurry. He maintained a reasonable speed, holding her hand whenever he could. They arrived at hospital just after noon, parking in the car park across the street from the main entrance. She took his hand in hers again as they crossed the street and entered the building, the queue to the information desk a bit long, so they got in it, waiting to find out what room her father was in. Jorah noticed Barristan sitting in a chair by the wall just opposite where they were, Jorah nodded to him as he walked toward them.

               “Hello, you must be Daenerys. I’m Barristan Selmy, a friend of Jorah’s from our Army days.” He held his hand out to her and she shook it.

               “I remember you from the petrol station. It’s nice to finally put a face to a name. I just want to say thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Just then, the lady behind the counter asked them if they needed help. While Daenerys spoke to her, Barristan inclined his head, so only Jorah could hear him, “She’s a beautiful woman.”

               Jorah watched her walk down the hall to her father’s room, seeing her glance over her shoulder one last time before turning the corner, his eyes still trained on where she had been, his voice thoughtful, “She is.” He turned to Barristan, a knowing look on the older man’s face. Jorah sighed, “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even say it.”

               Barristan laughed, “I wasn’t going to say a word.” He regarded Jorah for a moment before he continued, “It’s been, what, five years?

               Jorah’s hands clenched in his pockets, he hated talking about Lyn. He shook his head in resignation, “Six, actually, but who’s counting?”

               The older man rubbed his fingers through his short, graying beard, “We go back a long way, you and I. All the way back to Sandhurst. Holding Daenerys’ hand in yours, that’s the happiest I’ve ever seen you. Six years is a long time to go without someone to love in your life. Especially when you look at someone the way you just looked at her.”

               They were silent for a time before Jorah spoke, “With her father back, things will change. He won’t be pleased to discover our relationship.”

               “Perhaps, but you won’t know that for sure until the two of you speak.” Barristan looked at him a beat before he continued, “You’re a good man. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Lyn was…” He trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck.

               “Selfish and manipulative. It’s all right, you can say it.” Jorah exhaled a long breath, “I came back from that war a different person. My head wasn’t in the right place when I married her. It’s taken me five years to finally feel like I’m ‘normal’ again.  And now, with Daenerys, it’s different somehow. Our connection is…a wonderful mystery to me.” Jorah felt his lips pull into a small smile.

               “As I’ve always believed, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”

               “True.” Jorah took his hand out of his pocket to shake his older friend’s hand. “In any case, I want to say thank you too. You’ve gone above and beyond this time; I don’t know how I’ll be able to repay you.”

               Shaking his hand, Barristan smiled, “You’re welcome. Perhaps I’ll ring you the next time I need a field agent.”

               Jorah chuckled, “Perhaps.”

He started to walk away, but stopped and turned back, “One last thing. The ‘situation’ you left at her home; it’s been taken care of. It’s unfortunate when intruders break into the house but are foiled in their robbery attempt.” He shook his head, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Goodbye, Jorah.”

“Take care,” he stood there a moment longer before taking a seat along the wall to wait for Daenerys to come back.

A short time later, he saw her making her way through the busy hallway toward him, her eyes puffy and red from crying. He stood and inclined his head to meet her eyes, his gaze and voice concerned, “What happened, love?”

“Nothing. Take me home please?”

Jorah noticed she couldn’t meet his eyes, how she hugged herself. _Something happened_ , he concluded, but he decided not to question her further, at least not now.

“Of course.” He put his arm around her shoulders and they walked to the car in silence; the drive to her home was equally heavy with quiet tension.

Upon arriving, he came around and opened the door for her. He followed behind her and opened the entrance to the house; she entered and went straight to the living room without one further acknowledgement of Jorah’s presence. He stood in the foyer, confused about what had just transpired between them. He decided he would give her space and went to the study to wait.

A while later, he stood in the entryway to the living room, quietly watching her. She sat in a chair by the window, her legs curled under her, a quilt over her lap. She stared out the window, her gaze fixed on nothing. He approached her quietly, stopping beside the chair. “Daenerys?” He crouched down, trying to meet her eyes, “What happened? What did your father say to you?”

There was a long pause before she quietly answered, “It wasn’t what he said, it’s what he _didn’t_ say. I don’t know why I keep thinking things will change,” she scoffed, “They never do.” She turned her face from him, the back of her hand wiping at her freshly fallen tears.

“Daenerys, look at me, love.” She met his gaze only after a heavy sigh, “There is nothing wrong with thinking things or people will change. The only problem comes when you _expect_ it to. Some people will never change no matter how much we hope or wish them to.”

It sounded like Jorah was speaking from experience, but it still irked her. “So, you’re saying I should just accept that he’ll always be like that?”

He could see how much this hurt her. Daenerys wanted justice, fairness, but most of all, change. Wanted situations and things to be different from the way they were. And she thought _she_ could be the one to affect it. What she may not have realized was that she had changed someone. _Him_. Not in some profound, obvious way. But subtle differences, ones only he recognized. He stood and leaned down to lift her into his arms, taking the seat she had just been occupying, and settling her in his lap. “I know it’s hard, love. But, yes, it comes to a certain point when you have to accept that no matter how much you may want someone to change, they won’t. Even if it would be better for them…for everyone.”

“You wanted someone to change, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Daenerys recognized that familiar hurt in Jorah’s eyes because she had seen it in her own. It was a deep pain and she knew it could only come from being hurt by someone close. His ex-wife. She didn’t press him further, instead, she nestled into his embrace, letting the comfort she always found there to fill her and soothe away her hurt. They stayed there for a long while, savoring what little time alone they had left before things would likely go pear-shaped. When her father arrived home, Jorah was fairly sure that he would not be pleased with everything that had happened. He decided not to dwell on it, since there was nothing he could do about it now, except wait.

***

               “Hello, Daenerys.”

               She leaned against the doorjamb, the light from above the pool table lit his profile and she could tell he was smiling softly.

               “I’ll never be able to sneak up on you, will I?”

               He turned and leaned back, his hands supporting his weight on the table’s edge, “The day you’re able to do that is the day I throw in the towel.”

               The suit jacket long discarded, his tie hanging undone around his neck, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt open; it all signaled to her his relaxation yet it did not mean his guard was down. _Not by a long shot_. Her laugh was quiet, the dimples clearly visible on her cheeks, but then her smile faded, “Everything will be different after tomorrow, won’t it?”

               “Not everything,” he exhaled slowly, “I won’t lie to you, Daenerys, your father won’t be pleased with me.”

               “About us?”

               “Not just that, I think the whole ‘information for rescue’ deal will be a large part of it.”

               Her tone grew serious, “You had no choice.”

               “He might not see it that way.” Jorah ran his hand through his hair, “What’s done is done and I can’t change it. I just have to accept whatever consequences he deems are fit.”

               The silence was heavy as she walked slowly across the room to stand across from him. She toyed with one of the pool balls, bouncing it off the felt rail. A tumbler sat there, only a mouthful of amber liquid surrounded a melting ice cube.

               She met his eyes, “I’ve never seen you drink before.”

               “It’s a horrid habit that reappears every time I get anxious.”

               “You? Anxious? That’s impossible.”

               He gave her a sarcastic smile, “I hide it well.”

               “I’ll say, but your eyes are always a dead giveaway.”

               She was looking at them now and she did see disquiet in them, but it was beginning to slip away.

               He stepped to her, his hand stilling her fidgeting, “What do you see in them now?”

               She knew her eyes betrayed her too and his gaze was responding to the emotion he saw there. From the moment she had stood in the doorway, in the back of her mind, she had slipped back to that night when he had kissed her here. Now, with him standing so close to her that she could see the specks of grey in his pale blue irises, his thumb rubbing idly over the back of her hand, reading her knuckles like braille, the memory, and all of its sensations, rushed to the surface and she gasped softly.

               His deeply drawn breath made his shirt tighten, his parted lips sending a silent invitation to kiss him. “Love,” her free hand drew over his chest and curled around the back of his neck, “ _desire_.”

               The corners of his eyes crinkled, “You are so very observant, _Khaista_.”

               “I learned from the best,” she whispered just before their lips met.

***

               The candles flames flickered and danced, casting a romantic glow. The water wasn't as hot as Daenerys usually liked it, but she was sharing the large soaking tub with someone else now. Jorah had hissed when he'd dipped his toe in at first, something that made her giggle as she turned on the cold tap to lower the temperature. Once it was better, Jorah had climbed in, spreading his legs so she could nestle between them, settling back against his chest with a long, happy sigh.

Enfolded in his one-armed embrace, she listened to his measured breaths, letting it soothe her. Or at least she tried to. Her mind kept drifting to tomorrow and what it would bring. Her father was coming home and gods only knew what that would mean for the two of them. Her fingers started to fidget, creating random patterns in the damp hair on Jorah’s forearm, the index finger on her other tracing the prominent edge of the bone on his partially exposed knee.

“Don't think about tomorrow, love,” Jorah soothed, his own hand starting to rub gently over her upper arm.

_Mind reader_ , she mused with a smile. “Sorry, I just-”

“No apology needed.” He kissed her cheek, his hand coming up to turn her face a bit so he could look into her eyes, “Stay in this moment with me.”

So full of love and gentleness, she fell into the endless blue pools, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw in soft, slow strokes. She felt her apprehension ebb away with each one, centering her back in the here and now. With him.

“Tell me something you've never told me before.”

He was trying to get her mind completely focused on something happier and she was grateful for that. “I fantasized about you in the bath with me.”

He hummed his approval at her whispered admission, his lips quirking, his eyes dancing with playful desire. “Did you now? When was this?”

“A little after Christmas.”

He groaned softly, thinking about how he was likely in his room while she thought of him and almost certainly took care of her needs. “Tell me about it, Daenerys.”

His gravelly purr slipped into her veins like a potent drug, sending heat pooling low in her belly. “We were like this, her head turning to rest back on his strong shoulder, “you were kissing my neck, my ear. You were saying things to me, only I couldn't make them out. Your hands caressed my skin, my breasts, then lower.”

“What did I do then,” he prompted, his lips skimming the shell of her ear, a gasp leaving her unbidden.

She took his hand and guided it to just above her sex, “You lingered here until I came apart for you.”

His only response was a low growl, one that made Daenerys shiver. He started slow, his lips feather-light against the back of her neck before moving to the side, his tongue darting out to taste her damp skin. Some kisses were mere brushes of his lips and a breath exhaled, others open-mouthed and hungry. Then he was at her ear, tracing the curve of it, his teeth gently rasping the lobe. Already infinitely better than her fantasy, Daenerys surrendered to Jorah and his extremely talented mouth. He built her pleasure with time and care, not missing a single inch of her skin. He possessed an almost preternatural knowledge of her body, knowing just how much to give her and where at exactly the right time. It was like he was in her mind and knew her fantasy as if it was his own. And perhaps he did, the thought that he'd imagined them like this sent a rush of heat through her like a blaze.

His lips didn’t stray far from her ear now, the warm puffs of air causing gooseflesh to pucker her skin despite the temperature of the water. Her own breathing had gone slightly ragged, her body moving a bit impatiently against him. His fingertips followed the line of her neck as it flowed into her shoulder, tracing the roundness of lithe muscle and back along the length of her clavicles, “You have such exquisite bone structure, love. Strong yet delicate.” Then his fingers were moving down, along the outer curve of her breast, his other hand joining in. “Your breasts, Daenerys...formed by the gods. They fit perfectly in my hands.”

And to emphasize his words, he cupped them, engulfing the supple flesh. He kneaded their fullness, her chest arching into his perfect touch, a soft moan rising in her throat. “And these perfect ripe berries, I _ache_ to take them in my mouth.”

And gods she wanted him to do that, the fact that his fingers were softly plucking and rolling them almost wasn't enough. He didn’t rush his worship, he stayed at her breasts, fondling and teasing until her whimpers grew needy. Only then did he leave them, albeit reluctantly, to splay the length of her stomach, his pinkie just at the top of her curls. “Your womanly belly...the feel of it pressed against me when I hold you...when we are joined. The warmth, the softness. I never want you to leave my arms.”

Not only were his words romantic, but they were also unlike anything a man had ever said to her. It wasn't 'dirty talk' at all, it was sweet and so very like Jorah’s approach to intimacy. And she craved more. And that as just what he gave her. “Your hips,” his hands pausing there, “such perfect curves. Your legs,” he groaned, palming the lean muscles, “gods, when they're wrapped around me, I want to stay there forever.”

“My bear,” she sighed, her head lolling against his shoulder.

He nuzzled her neck, “I love when you call me that, _Khaista_. I _am_ your bear.” His fingers dipped down to her inner thighs, her legs parting further in anticipation. Closer and closer, his touch was the sweetest torture. When the back of his thumb finally brushed her curls, he stopped. Daenerys let out a whine, her hips moving in a vain attempt to get him where she needed him. “And your bear _loves_ your honey.”

He sounded every bit like his nickname, the way his words came out like a growl, the implication of his words not lost on her. Lifting her hand, she grasped the damp hair at the back of his head and turned her face toward him, pulling him to her, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. Their tongues dipped and swirled, just like his fingers, spreading the copious evidence of her arousal against her throbbing pearl in maddeningly slow circles. Gods, it felt _so good_ and she was _so close_ , her body trembling, her lips tearing from his to give voice to her pleasure, her throaty moans reverberating off the tile.

“I love hearing you…seeing your face, the ecstasy in your eyes. That's it, love,” he urged, “fall apart for me.”

The water rippled against the porcelain as his fingers sped up, knowing she needed them a bit faster near the end. Her breathing deepened, her back arching from his chest. “Look at my eyes, love,” he whispered as the first wave of bliss stole her breath in a shuddering gasp, his adoration shining back at her wide gaze. “Beautiful...so beautiful,” his husky voice tinged with awe.

He brought her down slowly, her body slumping heavy and sated against him. His hand didn’t leave, his fingers resting gently against her pearl, savoring the fading throbs of her orgasm with a hum of satisfaction.

As much as Daenerys loved the way Jorah was caressing her skin, the press of his hardness against her lower back was too much to ignore any longer. She turned in his arms and rose to her knees, watching with a smirk how Jorah's lips parted, his eyes roaming over her, watching the water cascade over her breasts. He seemed utterly transfixed, the desire in his eyes at war with the profound love he felt for her. She was just as enthralled, the rise and fall of his chest, the way droplets clung like dew to his coppery fur there. She followed the darkening trail below the water, his cock begging for attention. Unconsciously, her tongue darted out to wet her lips, a renewed need taking hold.

She leaned forward, her fingers starting at the sinew creating the hollow of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing with a rough swallow. The slope of his shoulders, evolution’s subtle way of telling her he was strong, that he could protect her. She could attest to both of those facts, he carried her as if she weighed nothing, his chest and arms her shield against those who would hurt her. She went there next, the lean musculature of his biceps and forearms, dipping into the slight indentations on her way to his hands. Oh, how she loved his hands.

They made her feel safe, they reassured and comforted her, and they knew how to elicit the most wondrous sensations from her body. She traced the digits, over the gentle bumps of his knuckles and fleshy ridges of his scars, the lines that broke up the slight roughness of his palms, the calluses on his fingertips. All the while he watched her through heavy eyelids, letting her do as she wished.

His chest was next, that broad, gorgeous expanse, and beneath his warm skin, his heart. She rested her palm over it and closed her eyes, feeling its rhythm, a bit faster than usual. But she wanted to make it race. Having had enough of exploring, she slid her hand down his flat stomach to his cock, taking it in a light grip, feeling the throb of his heartbeat. His head fell back with a groan, his eyes darkening. Slow, measured strokes, paying extra attention to that place along the underside, the one that made the muscles in his belly twitch, made his breath catch. Her thumb swept over the tip; a feeling slicker than water had her bottom lip tucking between her teeth.

“Daenerys,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his hand reaching out to still her own. “I want to make love to you.” She made to straddle him, “Not here, love. I want to take my time.”

She smiled softly, her heart nearly bursting at the tender passion of his words. Standing, she held her hand out to him. He took it, but stood under his own power and stepped out of the tub onto the plush bathmat before reaching over and lifting her into his arms bridal style. He carried her into his room, the space here too lit softly by candlelight. Laying her down in the center of the mattress, he walked around to the foot of the bed and stopped.

Daenerys' hooded eyes watched his move over her slowly, her skin tingling warm. She wasn't the least bit shy now, her legs fell open, her arms stretching lazily above her head. Her own gaze moved over him, his chest rising and falling with each impassioned breath. Guided by desire, her perusal fell to his straining hardness, arousal glimmering at the slit.

“Jorah," she whispered, drawing him from his mesmerized state.

He crawled slowly toward her, one hand bracing his weight, the other following the outer curve of her leg, his head dipping down to her core for a taste, his tongue slipping between her swollen folds, his lips encircling her pearl, suckling softly. A moan escaped her, her hands reaching for him, needing him. He seemed to understand, eyes meeting hers as he left a tender parting kiss, his beard brushing her slickness like paint over her belly on his way to her breasts. He kissed her there too as he settled into the cradle of her hips, her legs curling around him.

She could taste herself in his kiss, something she had grown accustomed to and secretly found wildly erotic. Guiding him into her, Daenerys gasped into his mouth, his own breath warm against her face. Their eyes met as he reached his limit within her and Daenerys swore that every time they were joined like this it felt like the first time all over again.

Jorah kept his promise, his hips rolling down into hers at a leisurely pace. Everything seemed to synchronize in their carnal dance, their hearts and bodies on the same loving wavelength. Beneath him, surrounded by his strength, she felt safe, loved, and cherished. Never dominated. He was so unlike any man she had ever been with, the power contained in his tall, lean frame was not, and nor would it ever be, used against her. Jorah would let harm befall him before he even thought of causing Daenerys any pain. Their gaze never broke, both of them wanting to remember every breath, every touch, every emotion swirling in their eyes. Her hand cupped his jaw, then slid into his curls to bring him in for a lingering kiss before their foreheads rested against one another’s.

And when she, at long last, lost herself to the sensations, tears slipped from her eyes, her breathless “I love you” stole the air from his lungs and drew him into ecstasy with her.

***

               “You said not everything would change.”

               It was well after midnight, Jorah’s room now dimly lit by what was left of the burned down candles. Daenerys’ head lay pillowed on his chest, her fingers toying idly with the hair there, their heated skin now cool from their second, more passionate, round of lovemaking.

               “I know one thing that will remain the same.” Lifting her head, she found him staring at her. Memorizing her, his eyes darting between the features before settling on her own, “I will _always_ love you, Daenerys,” he said, his hand cradling her face.

               Emotion overflowed in her and slid down her cheek as she leaned forward suddenly and kissed him with a ferocity that she hoped would show just how deeply she loved him in return.

               He tasted the salt on her lips and held her tight to him, willing his mind to remember this moment. Desperate for air, their lips parted and she nuzzled her face in his chest, drawing in a long sniff of his skin. Neither spoke; instead, they listened to the sound of the others’ breathing.

               After a time, Daenerys fell asleep. Jorah lay there in the near darkness, trying not to think of tomorrow or what it could bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @fanoftheknight...Your astute observation in last week's comment is sadly spot-on. Dear readers, please don't hate me :/


	24. Tumbling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aerys' return means a secret that was once hidden is now revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for what happens :/
> 
> Chapter warnings: Swearing, heavy angst

Jorah woke first, the soft, grey light telling him it was still early. Daenerys lay sleeping in his arms and his gut twisted at the realization of what awaited them later that day. He mentally shook it away and closed his eyes, instead focusing on the warmth and feel of her against him. He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew a pair of amused violet eyes were sleepily gazing at him, one corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. “You snore sometimes, my bear.”

               “Sorry love,” he said, his voice roughened further by his nap.

               “It’s okay,” her expression falling a bit, “I should probably be getting ready for my father’s arrival anyway.”

               _Right._ He sighed, pausing to kiss her forehead before he got out of bed and headed to the chest of drawers to get his clothes for the day.

               “Jorah,” she called after him as she got to her feet, the sheet wrapped loosely around her petite frame. He paused, mesmerized by her effortless beauty. Tousled hair, a faint pressure line from the blanket evident across her upper arm, sleep gathered in the corner of her eyes. He knew he could wake up to her every morning like that and never tire of it. She stopped in front of him, “Will you make me that omelet you told me about?”

               Jorah remembered the conversation; he had told her at the safe house that he knew how to make three things and she had already had two of them. He smiled, “Of course.”

               “Great,” she replied, rising on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss before she dashed off to her room to get dressed, the sheet falling to the floor with an airy laugh. Jorah chuckled to himself and pulled open the top drawer to grab a shirt before walking to the entrance of his room to retrieve the sheet she had left behind. He quickly made the bed, not as nicely as he usually did, but he wasn’t taking his time. He wanted to get to the kitchen and enjoy these last few precious hours he had with her alone. Something nagged at the back of his mind, a sense that something was about to happen. And it wasn’t something good.

***

               Jorah tried to keep things light during breakfast, but his thoughts kept drifting. And Daenerys noticed. She asked him if everything was all right, but they both knew it wasn’t. Daenerys was nervous too, for reasons that were probably very similar to Jorah’s. But also a few different ones too. She was sure her father knew that something had developed between her and Jorah, yet perhaps he didn’t know the full extent. In the room at the hospital, when the topic of Jorah had come up, his eyes had narrowed suspiciously, but he hadn’t said anything. Wasn’t that worse than reading her the riot act? He probably didn’t really care that they were a couple now, he never really cared much for anything that happened to her or anything she did. But he was undoubtedly anxious that she had let something slip about his ‘work’ while they lay in each other’s arms, weak from bliss. Incriminating pillow talk. Little did Aerys know that he had been far from his daughter’s mind for most of their time at the safe house, not to mention, here at her home. It was the information for rescue plan that would likely cause the biggest problem. Jorah didn’t really have a choice; it was either they leave him for dead or initiate a liberation mission. Daenerys was certain Jorah had made the right decision and she was sure, deep down, that her father felt the same way. He would just never admit it.

               Jorah was unusually quiet for the rest of the morning and he seemed quite content to sit in the leather armchair overlooking the garden with her in his arms. She could feel the tension in him, but she decided not to mention the subject further. At one point, a while into their cuddling session, she felt Jorah’s hand take hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a nearly contemplative way.

Her head lifted to look at his face, but her question died on her lips when she saw his eyes, the blue shimmering and glassy. He was gazing down at their intertwined fingers, his jaw tight.

               At last, he met her look, his one that seemed almost pained. “Whatever happens today, Daenerys, remember that I love you,” he said thickly, his throat rolling.

               “Jorah, what—”

               “Please,” he interrupted, nearly begging, “Just remember.”

               “I will,” she whispered, her forehead coming to rest against his.

               The further change in his behavior had her even more nervous now. Perhaps Jorah knew Aerys in a way she didn’t, knew something that would make a strong man like him act the way he was. Could it be possible that her father would kill Jorah for what he had done? Was he thinking that these were his last hours alive, and once he was gone, he wanted her to hold onto the memory of their love as she grieved? Then Jorah was kissing her and any further thought fled her. It was heart-stopping, all-encompassing, his arm tight around her waist, holding her to his chest, his other hand buried in her hair. She tasted salt on his lips, or perhaps it was hers, she wasn’t sure, all she knew was that they were both crying.

               Time seemed to slip by faster than it ever had, and all too soon, her phone was vibrating in her back pocket, the chauffeur calling to let her know her father was on his way. She knew the drive wouldn’t take long, and when the crunch of gravel greeted their ears, their eyes met and held before they walked to the foyer to greet Aerys. While she wasn’t truly happy for him to be home, she was content that he wasn’t seriously injured and he seemed in a slightly better mood than when she had gone to visit him at hospital. He walked with a cane, his sprained ankle in a brace, the skin around his left cheekbone mottled blue and purple with bruises. And then Daenerys saw the man who entered after her father, a mountain of a man really, she had to crane her neck just to take him in fully. He was huge and broad and said nothing when he was introduced as Gregor, their new bodyguard.  _Their new bodyguard_ , she thought, worried about what that would mean for Jorah. She glanced at him over her shoulder, but his features were unreadable.

               After adjourning to the sitting room, her father poured himself a tumbler of Glenfiddich from the glass decanter before he asked Daenerys to leave him alone with Mormont, as he referred to him. Gregor ushered her silently from the room, but she met Jorah’s eyes one last time before she disappeared around the corner.

               Jorah stood beside the sofa, his hands clasped behind his back, Aerys seated across from him in a high-backed leather chair Jorah had always thought looked like a throne. Aerys gestured for him to sit, but Jorah refused, “I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.” Daenerys’ father regarded him for a moment, “What were you thinking?”

Jorah’s brows knit together, “I don’t understand.”

“You know bloody well what I mean. You broke our agreement. You stopped calling. Disrespectful little shit,” he spat under his breath, his hand rising to gesture someone in. Cold steel pressed hard against the back of Jorah’s head, the hammer clicking back. The two men locked eyes, wild violet to steely blue, “I could order Gregor to pull the trigger and no one would even miss you.” He sipped his drink, lengthening the agonizing wait before he waved the other man off. “That’s not the only reason you’ve disappointed me. Coordinating a rescue mission with British Special Forces in exchange for every contact and supplier I have ever done business with. What gives you the right to-”

Jorah had frankly had enough of Aerys’ games. “Had I not intervened, footage of your beheading would have been breaking news on every channel and your headless corpse would be rotting away right now somewhere in the Afghan desert.”

 That revelation seemed to sober Aerys, the color draining from his face. But he recovered quickly, “You were supposed to be spying on my daughter, not--”

Jorah interjected, trying to keep his frustration in check, “No, _my_ priority was, and still is, to protect Daenerys at all costs.”

Aerys narrowed his eyes at Jorah, watching his reactions closely. “But it’s not about the job for you anymore, is it?” He could sense that he was being tested, so he kept his features as blank as possible and said nothing. “My daughter loves you.” He sneered, “Her eyes have always given her away; I could see right away there’s more to it than that.” His brows and voice suggestive as he went on, “Mormont, I paid you to spy on Daenerys, and to a lesser extent, I suppose, protect her. I did not, however, pay you to seduce and manipulate my daughter so you could fuck her.”

Jorah gritted his teeth in anger and his hands clenched behind his back, appalled by the vulgar way this man spoke about his own child, the woman he loved. It took all of the strength in him not to cross the space between them and beat Aerys to a bloody pulp. When he finally spoke, his voice nearly gave his emotions away, his eyes flashing, “With all due respect, Mr. Targaryen, _fuck_ is not the way you should be speaking with regards to your daughter. I would _never_ manipulate Daenerys. She is a grown woman, perfectly capable of making her own decisions. She knows her own heart; perhaps you should give her more credit.”

“Don’t presume to tell me how I should deal with her!” The older man’s voice rose, “You’ve known her all of, what, nine months?” He regarded Jorah silently, then a slow smile broke across his face, “I was going to let Gregor take your life. But now, I think I’ll take something far more precious from you. Bring my daughter in here.”

And there it was, the inevitable beginning of the end. Jorah could feel it in the pit of his stomach, like watching a car crash unfolding in slow motion, helpless to prevent the devastating aftermath. He tried to keep his features impassive, but the older man’s spreading smug grin told him he was failing miserably.

All too soon, she was there, confusion wrinkling her brow, “You wanted to see me.”

“Mormont has something to tell you.” Aerys stood, glass in one hand, cane in the other, his eyes moving away from his daughter to Jorah, “don’t you?”

Now she was looking at him with those eyes and Jorah felt sick. “What’s he talking about?”

“Daenerys, I--” He hesitated, his voice not quite as strong as he had hoped for.

Aerys wasn’t a patient man. “Oh, just a certain agreement we made.”

Her gaze swung back to Jorah, her confusion deepening. “What agreement?”

They were alone now, though Jorah didn’t know when Gregor and Aerys had left, his gaze focused on Daenerys’ face. “When your father hired me, we—I agreed to,” he dropped his eyes briefly, then met hers again, “I agreed to spy on you. To report everything you did and everyone you spoke to.”

He admitted his transgression in a quiet voice, as if lowering the volume would lessen the blow somehow. He wanted to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness, but her disbelief morphed swiftly into anger. It was somewhere in between that he witnessed her heart shatter. Like the shock wave from a concussion grenade, the emotion from that instant slammed into him, nearly causing him to stagger back a step.

“How could you!?” Her voice broke, tears welling fast, “I trusted you.”

“Daenerys, I--I protected you. I killed for you. I love you.” He didn’t care how desperate he sounded, his hand reaching out for her.

She looked at it as if it were diseased, her feet carrying her back a few steps. “Don’t you dare touch me!” Her cold eyes fixed on his, “Get out.”

“Daenerys, please, I--” He tried one last time, his voice pleading.

“Get out,” she cried and he flinched as if he had been slapped. She turned to walk away, but stopped, “I never want to see you again.”

And with those parting, emotionless words, like a dagger in his heart, Jorah was done. He didn’t care what happened to him now. Aerys could reconsider and order him shot and he’d accept death with open arms. He had never felt so devastated, so hollow, in his entire life.

Aerys’ dismissive tone cut into his thoughts, a gleeful smile twisting his mouth, “Well, you heard my daughter, I want you packed and out of my house within the hour.”

Jorah walked automatically back to his room, filling his bags with his meager belongings in an almost robotic fashion. But it was what he saved for last, as he rolled the large page carefully like it was a treasured ancient relic, that the emotions finally slammed home. The image blurred and he closed his eyes, a single tear breaking free to roll down his cheek. _Knight in shining armour,_ he scoffed _, No, more like betrayer._

At the door, he looked over the room one last time. His eyes fell to the bed, the once rumpled linens hastily made. His heart twisted, only hours before, they’d been entwined beneath the sheets, his name falling from her lips like the sweetest prayer. Jorah looked away, the memories too much for him to handle.

He saw no one on his way to Aerys’ study. He had held a glimmer of hope that he’d see Daenerys one last time and tell her what he had wanted to before, but it was crushed when all he encountered was deafening silence. Jorah strode through the open door and tossed a rubber-banded, beaten-up envelope onto Aerys’ desk. He eyed it, confused, “What’s this?’

“Your blood money. Keep it. I want no part of it.”

Lifting the flap, he thumbed through the thick stack of bills, as if checking to see whether Jorah was shortchanging him. He must have been satisfied because he opened a drawer and tossed it inside before closing it, “Suit yourself.”

Jorah left without another word, put his luggage in the boot and the rolled illustration in the back seat, stopping to look one final time at the house before he got in and drove away for the last time. His last thought was _I’ve lost the best thing that ever happened to me._

***

               Daenerys tried not to run back to her room, to give away just how much Jorah’s disclosure had wounded her. She knew her father would likely be watching and it would give him a great deal of satisfaction to know he had hurt her in the process. But once in her room, door shut and locked, she let the tears flow, her legs barely holding her up so she could collapse face first on her bed. She sobbed into the pillow, effectively muffling the hiccupping near wails that escaped her constricted throat. _How could he_ , she thought, how could this man who said he loved her betray her like that? She had trusted him with her life, and later, her heart and now it hit her that perhaps he had never really loved her at all, that he was playing a part, manipulating her, saying and doing all the right things to get what he wanted.

               _He would never do that. That isn’t him._

               She shook her head, the anger and sorrow rising in her once more to quiet the logical voice in her mind. Right now, the pain was too acute, the wound in her heart too raw to accept any other explanation. She only saw red, her fury nearly overwhelming her grief. She had wanted to slap him, to beat her fists against his chest and scream at him, but in that moment, she had somehow managed to maintain most of her composure and it had hurt him far more than any physical act could have done. He had earned that though, if he had thought he was going to get off easy, then he didn’t know her very well.

               _Whatever happens today, Daenerys, remember that I love you._

               “Shut up,” she croaked at his voice in her head, the back of her hand swiping at her damp cheeks. He had asked her to remember his love for her, but now all she wanted to do was forget he had even existed. Behind her closed lids, his tortured expression appeared, the way his eyes begged her to forgive him, the way he reached out to her as if she was the only thing holding him there, a drowning man and she his lifeline. Her chest suddenly felt impossibly tight, her muscles refusing to expand to allow air in. She pressed her palm against herself, an ache, unlike anything she had ever felt spreading through her, weighing her down until she felt as though she was composed of lead. She slumped against the mattress and curled into a ball, letting the feeling consume her.

***

               Jorah felt like his car, aimless. Just like his life would be now. He had no idea where he was driving, just that he needed the distraction, hoping it would clear his head.

It didn’t.

In fact, it made things worse. His mind went round and round with what had happened, replaying it on a sick, never-ending loop. It was Daenerys' cold banishment, _I never want to see you again_ , that pierced his heart over and over again, that echoed in his brain and blurred his vision. Eventually, it forced him to the hard shoulder, where he sat in the cold bluish light of his dashboard and wept. Wept at the loss of her, wept for the decision that ultimately cost him everything. He had been selfish, taking the money for something he had felt from the start was morally, not to mention ethically, wrong. Blinded by his desire for home, he had abused her trust in him and betrayed the friendship that had developed so easily between them. He thought back now to that night, the night he made the first call.

_Jorah slipped into the darkened sunroom, shutting the sliding glass door behind him with a soft_ **click** _. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was indeed alone, that Daenerys hadn't heard him leave his room this late at night and followed him, then he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for his mobile and a small piece of paper. He eyed the items, a heartbeat's hesitation, then he dialed the number. One ring, two, then interrupting the middle of the third, "You’re bloody late."_

_Jorah ignored Aerys' irritation. “We went to the cinema twice, a local coffee shop and Harrods.”_

_“That's it? Did she have any visitors? Make any phone calls?”_

_“No visitors. She made several phone calls to her friends. No one else.”_

_“Several? How many?”_

_Jorah was fed up with the exacting questions. “You have access to her mobile records, I don’t. You can find that out yourself.”_

_“I'm not paying you for your lip, Mormont.”_

_“No, you're paying me to spy on your daughter.”_

_Aerys snorted. “If you don’t like it, leave.” There was silence, then a chuckle that sounded downright cruel, “That's what I thought. Don’t be late with next month's call.”_

_The tone of a dead line rung in Jorah’s ear, his chest aching with a feeling he hadn't expected: guilt._

There it was again now, only it was infinitely worse. Suddenly, the car felt claustrophobic and everything spun, his throat tightening. He couldn't breathe, he needed to escape. His hands fumbled clumsily with the handle before he shoved open the door and stumbled for the low stone wall, where he caught himself. His chest heaved, a sensation like a heart attack gripping him. He took in great lungfuls of air to try and slow his racing pulse, but it didn't help. He slumped to the damp, mossy ground, the seat of his pants growing cold with spreading wetness. He let his head hang, his arms resting heavily on his bent knees. He closed his eyes, but immediately opened them again, her cold expression swimming in his mind's eye. How could he have hurt a woman so good and so kind? A woman who had given all of her gentle heart to him, entrusting him with its safety. And he had gone and broken it. His shoulders jerked with a silent sob, the need to get smashing drunk and collapse somewhere seizing him. _No, don’t give in_ , he told himself, _you can’t deal with this that way._

He cursed himself, cursed his cowardice at not revealing his transgression sooner. But would it have made any difference? She still would have likely sent him away, but perhaps the pain would have been less somehow. He let out a scoff, shaking his head, knowing she had his heart from the moment their eyes met that afternoon in her foyer. While Jorah had always been a man who believed in what he could see with his own eyes and not in flights of fancy, his mind had been changed by Daenerys. He now believed fate had put her in his path and he had screwed it up royally, giving it the big middle finger.

As with everything Jorah had done in his life, disappointing his father by ending his service in the Army far earlier than he had, not to mention all of the other ways he had failed him, his disastrous marriage; now he could add another to the list. Just par for the course really. But this one eclipsed all the others, the one that he knew would haunt him until his last breath. He had wanted to explain himself, to tell her it had only been one call. Yet he knew it was one too many. He sighed, what had he been thinking telling her that he had protected her, killed for her and loved her? Was that supposed to make everything magically disappear? As if all that he had done for her would somehow tip the scales in his favor or wipe his slate clean. He had squandered a perfect opportunity to apologize. And he would never get it back, would never be able to tell her how he never reported on her again.

_Jorah didn’t hesitate making his second call, his resolve strong, his mind made up. He dialed the number and waited only one ring this time. “What do you have for me?”_

_“Nothing.”_

_“Nothing,” Aerys repeated, “she did nothing for the last month?”_

_“No, it's just none of your business.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“You heard me.” Jorah said before adding, “This is the last call you'll receive from me.”_

_Aerys swore under his breath, then sighed. “What do you want? More money? I never pegged you for an extortionist.”_

_It was Jorah’s turn to be caught off guard. “What?”_

_“It always comes down to money,” Aerys said in an off-handed tone. “Wait, I know what you want. How much did you sell Mormont Manor for?”_

_Jorah’s blood ran like ice in his veins. “How do you know about that?”_

_“You're not the only one who can check up on people.”_

_“Well, if you looked into my background, then you already know,” Jorah said, his voice like steel._

_“I'll give you twice what it sold for. Will that do away with your meddlesome morality?”_

_“I don’t want your money. I’ve changed my mind about going home,” he replied without hesitation._

_Then Jorah hung up, pulled the back cover off the mobile, and removed the sim card. It snapped nearly in half under his strength, the noise giving him a sense of satisfaction. A sense of peace. Never again would he betray Daenerys' trust. He pocketed the broken pieces and installed the new, encrypted sim he had brought with him just in case._

Jorah wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting by the side of the road, but the loud blare of a horn roused him from his stupor, his reassuring wave to the driver letting them know everything was fine and that he didn’t need help. He had left the car door wide open in his haste to exit and he was shocked it hadn’t been hit by a passing vehicle. It would have been just his luck too, more salt for the wound. He got in, but didn’t drive away just yet. He still felt numb and a bit disoriented, his surroundings didn’t look all that familiar. It wasn’t until he started the engine and engaged the GPS that he got another kick to the gut. He was in the country; on the very same road he had taken to get Daenerys to the safe house. He scrubbed his hands over his face, flinching a bit at the state of his appearance in the mirror: wind-blown hair, reddened, puffy skin around blood-shot eyes. But he looked away fast, unable to stand the sight of himself after what he done. It was the same way that night all those months ago, his conscious nagging at him even in his dreams. It would likely be that way again, if sleep even decided to come to him. He doubted it would.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled back onto the road and turned around at the first chance he had, slowly making his way back to his house, to an oppressive solitude he knew awaited him.


	25. What I've Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah doesn't handle the guilt and pain of losing Daenerys very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt these song lyrics were quite fitting for what Jorah was going through, the melody angsty and atmospheric:
> 
> I had all and then most of you  
> Some and now none of you...  
> I don't know what I'm supposed to do  
> Haunted by the ghost of you  
>  _[The Night We Met](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtlgYxa6BMU)_ by Lord Huron
> 
> Chapter warnings: heavy angst, mentions of drinking

Three months. The longest, most agonizingly difficult three months of Jorah’s life. He had thought the pain he had felt that day would eventually subside, but it only lingered, clinging to him like a thick fog. Never in his life had he felt something so acutely. The discovery of his ex-wife’s infidelity and the protracted divorce that followed had been arduous and painful, but he would do that over again a thousand times to avoid this heartache. He had been in love, and lost, before, but the depth of emotion that he felt for Daenerys was unlike anything he had ever felt or would likely ever feel again. He had lost a part of his heart and he would never get it back. He had regretted instantly what he had done, wishing desperately that he could rewind time and do it over again, but right this time. He had found the love of his life where he had least expected her to be, right in front of him. And he had betrayed her. Even though it was a singular instance of duplicity, the guilt of it had gnawed at him every day since that phone call. Jorah wasn’t sure how she had never noticed; she had told him that his eyes always gave him away.

The first week he’d spent at home, sleeping mostly, trapped in a depression he couldn’t seem to shake. His eyelids had felt like sandpaper every morning; his dreams haunted by her banishment. It was in those nebulous waking moments, when sleep hadn’t fully let go of him, that he would feel nothing. But then, like a bandage ripped violently from flesh, the wound was torn open again and the tears would return, so would the emotions. He was shocked by his appearance when he finally did look in the mirror: hair disheveled, the stubble on his neck nearly as long as his beard. He looked worn and haggard, the outside matching his inside. Nine days proved to be his body’s, not to mention his mind’s, limit on how much wallowing he could take. The tenth day, he ventured out, having shaved and showered, to shop at the market. It was a welcome distraction, the bustle of people going about their lives helped him forget, if just for a little while. So, he gradually increased his time spent walking the streets, using the crowds as a much-needed break from the loneliness at home. However, he was soon low on money, and with bills piling up, he took Barristan up on his offer of a job in the Domestic Counterterrorism Unit, gathering, translating, and processing intelligence for use by MI:5. For all intents and purposes, a spy. The sick irony of it was not lost on him. And while he enjoyed the work and it did distract him, it never lasted very long. As soon as he arrived home at night; her memory was waiting there for him in the silence. But if this was the only way he could remember her, then he would suffer willingly.

               Even into sleep she followed him, his dreams filled with her: her smile, her laugh, the sound of her voice, and at times, her body. Some nights, his imaginings were filled with the sensation of her silky soft skin beneath his fingertips, the feel of her plush, full lips against his, and the caress of her gentle hand over his bearded jaw. And on those mornings, he would find the sheets balled at his feet, the pillow clutched tightly to his chest. And it was those mornings that he cried, wishing she was there with him, wanting nothing more in that moment than to truly hold her, tell her he was so very sorry for what he had done, beg her forgiveness, kiss her, and let her know that the depth of his love had no bounds.  It was in his weaker moments, when the pain of losing her was at its worst because he had seen something that reminded him of her that he would fall asleep and dream of their intimacy. Hazy and disjointed, they were more impression than actual, full memories. Still, his mind always tortured him with the same three things: the sound of her voice moaning his name in pleasure, the sight of her gorgeous pale skin flushed from her orgasm, and her stunning eyes gazing back at him with love bright in their depths. He would awaken, frustratingly aroused and painfully hard. Most times he could ignore it. But a few occasions, he gave in to the arousal and took himself in hand, trying to imagine it was her touch or even her body, but the feeling was hollow as he lay there afterward, disgusted with himself. 

               Yet it was the nightmares that distressed him the most. It was always the same, a faceless murky shadow engulfing her, the screams for him to save her, but she was always just out of his reach, and then she was gone, consumed by the darkness. He awakened in a sweat, his heart pounding, his gasping breaths making it hard for his mind to believe it wasn’t real. He never got back to sleep those nights.

               His colleagues and casual friends knew something was wrong, the dark circles under his eyes and his glowering spoke volumes. The women he worked with were either too polite or too indifferent to mention anything about it to him. His male coworkers, however, had no qualms about bringing it up. They actually gave him grief about his brooding. _Just drop in to the pub, pick up a woman, take her back to yours and shag her brains out. It's the perfect cure,_ they had told him. Jorah could barely keep the disgust from showing on his face. He had never nor would ever have a one-night stand, that simply wasn't who he was. He was, and had always been, an all or nothing sort of bloke, definitely not a 'love 'em and leave 'em'. A random shag with some woman he'd picked up in the local pub wouldn't mend his shattered heart. He wanted, no, _needed_ only one woman. Daenerys. Even the mere thought of her name sent a sharp pain lancing through his chest.

And it wasn't like women were lining up to go out with him. Jorah was convinced that they could tell he had been in a relationship that had ended and they didn’t want to be a 'rebound'. He was fine with that, he had absolutely no desire to start any sort of relationship any time soon. Or ever, for that matter. But Barristan, while completely professional during work hours, seemed to feel bad for him, a look in his eyes that said he understood well what Jorah was going through. As they would walk to the Underground station after work, he would casually ask if Jorah wanted to grab a pint or a bite to eat, but he always politely declined. As much as he needed to be around people to keep his mind from drifting, he sometimes needed to be alone more. He didn’t want to go over his pain with his boss, even if the man was his only true friend.

One afternoon during his lunch break, Jorah sat on a park bench overlooking the river, eating his sandwich and watching the people walk by. It was a welcome daily distraction, an hour where Daenerys' memory slipped into the back of his mind, lingering at the periphery of his thoughts. However, that day, she was brought to the forefront. A young woman carrying a leather satchel asked if she could share the bench, a brief glance left and right telling him the others were full. He nodded his assent and she thanked him, sitting down and opening the bag to take out a sketchbook and pencil case. It was as if the gods were against him. His throat tightened, his eyes suddenly stinging. He stared out at the view, willing himself not to remember all of the times Daenerys had drawn in his presence, had watched him with those beautiful eyes and drawn _him_. It was no use. He had to leave, to escape the memories like ghosts that threatened to swallow him whole. He stood and bid the woman 'good afternoon' before striding back to the office, still much of his lunch break left.

It wasn’t until Valentine’s Day that things really went downhill fast. He knew what day it was; it was impossible not to know, the flowers and advertisements were unavoidable. Women in the office space where he worked had delivery men coming around all morning, large glass vases full of red roses and big shiny balloons sat on several desks near his and the sight of it made him sick and bitter. He took his coat from his chair and left without a word to anyone. He drove home, his hands clenching around the leather steering wheel. He arrived, and after locking the door; took a tumbler, filled it with ice before pouring it half full with Scotch. He got blindingly drunk that night, attempting to get Daenerys’ memory out of his mind. It was an utter failure.

Days turned into weeks and Jorah swore after Valentine’s Day he wouldn’t turn to drink again. But he did, one cold, depressing rainy night. He sat in the low light of the lone lamp, staring at her painting of them. Flooded with guilt and sadness, he reached for the bottle again, not even bothering with a glass. He took a long swig, nearly enjoying the burn of it down his throat. His shoes lay haphazard by the front door, his tie somewhere on the floor nearby, his shirt half undone. He felt like a shell of his former self, his heart ached something fierce and all he wanted to do was have one chance, just one, to beg her forgiveness, to prove just how sorry he truly was. The silence of the room hung heavy over him and he couldn’t take it anymore. He flipped on the TV, leaving it on some random channel. Each swallow of alcohol he took was done in the hopes that it would numb his pain. But if it hadn’t worked weeks ago, it wasn’t going to now. It only succeeded in making him feel worse, a weak man for turning to drink to deal with his problems. When one of Daenerys’ favorite movies came on, he chucked the remote at the TV, but it missed by a wide margin and smashed against the wall. He staggered over and pulled the power cord from the socket, plunging the room into oppressive silence yet again. He collapsed on the couch, and before long, passed out and dreamt of nothingness.

He awoke to the sound of pounding. His head throbbed and he realized the horrible noise was not just in his head, there was someone at the door. _Who the fuck is knocking on my door at this hour_ , he thought, peering through slitted eyes at his watch and seeing that it was 9am. He sat up and instantly regretted it, a wave of nausea nearly knocking him back. He took a deep breath before he stood up and shuffled his way slowly to the door.

He opened and leaned against it, squinting against the brightness of the light, trying to make out who it was.

“You look like hell.” Barristan said matter-of-factly before he glanced over Jorah’s shoulder and saw the bottle of Scotch on the glass coffee table, “Rough night?”  

“Well hello to you too.” Jorah rubbed at his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain so he could think clearly. “Something like that. I suppose you want to come in?”

“Well, yes, I would.” Jorah opened the door farther and stood to the side so he could enter.

The older man scanned the room while Jorah flipped the switched on his coffee maker, taking a mug from the shelf and filling it with water from the tap. He then took the bottle of aspirin from the cupboard and poured two pills into his hand before tossing them into his mouth and washing them down with a long drink.

“I saw you leave work early yesterday, and needless to say, I was concerned. I wasn’t going to mention anything, but this is about Daenerys, isn’t it?”

Jorah scrubbed his hand in his hair and exhaled a long breath. “Of course it is.”

His friend came and sat on one of the high bar stools by the kitchen, his brows knit in confusion, “You were so happy the last time I saw you two together. How could it have ended so badly?”

Jorah leaned against the counter and ran his hand through his hair, “I...She sent me away, told me she never wanted to see me again.”

“Why?”

“I revealed how I had been reporting on her shortly after I’d been hired.”

Barristan sighed. “I see. Did you apologize?”

“I tried to, but...” Jorah shut his eyes at the memory of that day, “I can still see the moment her heart broke.” Then he added under his breath, “What the fuck was I thinking?”

“Have you tried to see her? Explain yourself?” One graying eyebrow arched, a smirk starting to appear, “Don’t answer that. I already know.”

“Know what,” Jorah asked defensively.

“What kind of Director of Intelligence would I be if I didn’t keep tabs on my spies?” He shot Jorah a pointed look, “You’ve been driving past her house once a week for the last three months.”

Jorah looked away, “It’s not like I could walk up to the bloody door and ask to be invited in. She wouldn’t want to see me anyway. She made her feelings painfully clear.”

Barristan crossed his arms and shook his head slowly, “You’re a git, you know that, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you are a fool. Since when have you _ever_ backed down from anything? You ran through heavy enemy fire to rescue a fallen comrade. You’re Jorah ‘The Bear’ Mormont for heavens sake.” He leaned forward then, uncrossed his arms and pointed at Jorah with his index finger, “Don’t let her slip away.”

He noticed the subtle shift in the older man’s gaze. He had seen it once before. “Who was she?”

A wistful smile barely lifted the shroud of sadness that had dulled Barristan’s icy blue eyes, “Ashara Dayne.” He looked past Jorah, as if seeing her standing there, “My Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“You never mentioned anything about her before.”

“No, even saying her name opens the wound all over again.”

“What happened?”

“I choose duty to my country over her. And I have regretted it ever since.”

“Why not try to find her now?”

His friend paled, “She killed herself a few years after we parted ways.”

“Gods, I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I keep thinking that if I hadn’t left her, she might still be alive. Alive and with me.” He shook his head hard, the mask he always wore back in place, “Perhaps fate will be kinder to you than me.”

“Perhaps.”

“There’s only one thing that you need to ask yourself,” Barristan stared at him, “Do you love her?”

“More than I’ve ever loved anyone,” Jorah replied, without hesitation.  

“Then my work here is done.” He smiled, looking quite pleased with himself. He got up and walked to the door, opening it. “Oh, one other thing. Get some sleep before you come back to work on Monday.”

Jorah gave him a half-smile as he waved goodbye, his friend shutting the door behind him. He poured himself a cup of coffee and tried to figure out how to go about making things right with Daenerys. Little did he know, the universe was planning a reunion. But it had a rather sick and twisted sense of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologize now for next week's chapter...it'll be more angst :/


	26. What Needs to Be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months apart from Jorah have taken their toll on Daenerys, but a visit from someone in her past will change her life forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologize now for the angst. That's all I'll say, on with the story.
> 
> Chapter warnings: angst, swearing, Aerys being a horrible father (what's new?)

Daenerys and Missandei sat in the sunroom just off the kitchen, drinking warm peppermint tea and talking as the water from the rain shower ran in rivulets down the glass. It had been stormy off and on all morning and the forecast showed it would likely be the same the next day. Her friend glanced over her shoulder at the large man sitting just outside the sliding glass doors of the room before turning back, a wide-eyed look on her face. “Your new bodyguard has a stick up his arse. It’s like he has one look, and heavens forbid he should smile, his face would crack. He might as well just wear a mask.” She leaned in to whisper to Daenerys, “Does he _ever_ speak?”

               “Not that I’ve ever heard.” She stared out the window, her gaze wistful.

               Her friend watched her for a moment before she said simply, “I miss Jorah too.”

               Daenerys’ eyes snapped to her friend’s at the mention of his name, “I didn’t say--”

               “You don’t have to.” Missandei interrupted, leveling her with a knowing look, “It’s been written all over your face for weeks. No, _months_ actually.”

               “Three months, two days.”

               Her eyebrows shot up, “Whoa, you do have it bad.”

               “You’re right though,” Daenerys’ eyes grew misty, her voice laden with pent-up emotion, “I do miss him.”

               “Have you tried calling him?”

               She shook her head. “The number I had; my father disconnected the line the day I sent Jorah away. I can’t find anything about him on the internet save for an old newspaper article about him receiving his Victoria Cross.” There had been a photograph of Jorah with the story, her heart aching at the sight of him so handsome in his dress blues, the red waist sash and golden twisted cord epaulettes affixed to his broad shoulders denoting his rank as a Commander. Daenerys had printed it out, keeping it folded up in the book Jorah had given her for her birthday, sitting in a place of honor on her bedside table.

               Missandei narrowed her eyes; Daenerys could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “What if I told you I could find out where he lives? I have friends at the DVLA that owe me a favor or two.”

               She smirked, “I’d say get me the information.”

               “Consider it done; I’ll call over there tomorrow.”

               “Thanks. Not just for that, but for everything you’ve done lately: putting in a good word for me at the Immigration Office that in turn led to me getting that job offer, not to mention, offering to let me move in with you.”

               Missandei shrugged, “That’s what friends are for. When are you going to talk to your father about leaving?”

               Daenerys took a deep breath. “He’s been in his study for a while now, so basically, whenever he finally comes out.”

               “Well,” she held up both hands, her fingers crossed, “good luck.”

               They both turned, movement catching their attention out of the corner of their eyes. Gregor stood as Aerys walked past the sunroom to the side table to pour himself another glass of Scotch before walking back the way he came.

“Here goes nothing,” Daenerys said, squaring her shoulders.

               She led her friend to the front door, where they hugged and said their goodbyes. Daenerys closed it after her, but didn’t move right away, instead, gathering her courage for the likely difficult conversation ahead. She walked to the study and knocked once before she heard a muffled “come in” from the other side. She entered and closed it softly behind her, the grey-haired man looking over some papers on his desk.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

               He looked up at her briefly before looking down again, “Make it quick.”

               “This’ll only take a moment. I just wanted to tell you I’m planning on moving out.”

               The words hung in the air for a moment as her father sat slowly back in his chair. “I didn’t give you permission to leave.”

               “I don’t need it,” Daenerys answered, “I’m an adult and I can leave whenever I want.”

               She couldn’t quite read her father’s expression, it appeared to be somewhere between anger and surprise. “And just how do you plan to support yourself? I sure as Seven Hells won’t give you any money.”

               “I’ve been offered a job downtown and I’ll be staying with my friend until I find my own place.”

               “I see you’ve been quite busy behind my back.” Her father tapped his fountain pen on the blotter before he asked, “This _friend_ , it wouldn’t happen to be Mormont, would it?”

               Daenerys stood taller, meeting his gaze head-on. “No, it’s not.” She exhaled, “Besides, you would know if I had any contact with him, what with how that bodyguard follows me around.”

               “I would. Gregor is very thorough.” He smiled, but it was cold.

               Daenerys shook her head in disbelief. “So was Jorah. In fact, he was the best bodyguard I ever had.” And since her father had decided to bring up Jorah, Daenerys had to know the answer to a question that had been gnawing at her mind since that fateful day. “Why did you have Jorah spy on me?”

               “I can’t trust anyone in my line of work. Although, he was the first I asked to report on you. I sensed there was a leak and I needed to be sure. But it doesn’t matter anymore,” he shrugged, “He was not who he represented himself to be. A man who follows orders would have kept the money I paid him, instead of giving it back. Such a lack of appreciation. ‘ _Blood money and I want no part of it_ ’, the prick,” he grumbled.

               _Jorah gave the money back?_ That newfound information added to Daenerys’ shifted perception. If he had never cared about her, her life, or then later, her heart, Jorah would have kept it and left. “No, he was _exactly_ how he represented himself. He was honorable and that’s why he gave it back.”

“Fool. I have no place for honor in my business.” He rose from his chair and stalked around his desk. “I hired that man for one reason, but you went and ‘fell in love’ with him.” Aerys’ method of attack shifted as it often did, to her. His tone grew scornful, “Not to mention _whatever_ else you did together.”

               Her brows knit together. “So what if I fell in love with him? And if anything else did happen between us, it’s none of your business.”

               “You’re weak, just like your mother. Ruled by a gentle heart,” he spat, as if the thought that being gentle made you vulnerable. “You don’t even realize that he was manipulating you to get what he wanted. He used you!”

               Her father’s harsh words cut her deeply, not just because he was saying she was gullible but also because his characterization of her former bodyguard, the man she had fallen in love with, was wholly wrong. “Jorah _never_ manipulated me. He _loved_ me.” _And I still love him_ , she wanted to add, but kept it to herself.

               “Silly, stupid girl.” He shook his head, his tone mocking her, “He’s a man, Daenerys. They will do or say what–“

               “Because that’s what you would do, isn’t it, father?” Her words brimmed with anger and hurt.

               “How dare you –“

               “No, how dare you!” Daenerys’ voice rose over his, “You speak to me like I am a naïve little child. But I’m not. I’ve grown up; you wouldn’t know that, seeing as how you’ve never been around for longer than a few days at a time. Yet you presume to know what’s best for me. Not anymore, I’m making my own decisions now.”

               Wounded and angry at her father’s words, Daenerys stormed from the study, slamming the door behind her. He did not follow after her and she wasn’t surprised, the fact that he could say those things to her as if she wasn’t his daughter only made the effect of his hateful speech crueler. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, she pulled open the freezer and dug out a pint of ice cream. Taking a spoon from the drawer, she went back to the solarium to drown her sorrows. As she ate, the tears that she had expected to fall didn’t. The pain seeped away, leaving only bitterness. Had Jorah been there he would have talked her down, made her see that what her father had said to her was not her fault and that she had done nothing wrong, save for beginning to exert her independence from him. And the prospect of that for a man who was essentially a ‘control-freak’ was simply inconceivable. _Jorah._ The mere thought of his name made her chest ache. Not from the sting and anger at his betrayal, but because she missed him. Far more than she let on to her friend. She had cried herself to sleep the night she’d sent him away, waking in the morning with the urge to cry still there. Only she had no more angry tears to shed, just ones of loss.

               She tried so hard not to think about him, but her mind wouldn’t listen. The comfort she found in his small smile, the gentleness of his beautiful blue eyes, the deep richness of his voice, but most of all, the safety of his warm embrace. When her previous boyfriends had held her, it had felt empty, leaving her wanting. When Jorah held her, it was a different sensation entirely. The warmth and calm he exuded seeped into her body as well as her soul, stilling the restlessness she felt, her heart synchronizing with his slow, steady beat. If she thought about him, she was lost. She wondered from time to time if Jorah was feeling as miserable as she was.

               How she wanted him to be there, to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. But he wasn’t, she had seen to that. She had gone over and over that afternoon so many times in her head, she could repeat what was said verbatim, but the worst memory of it all was the guilt and contrition in Jorah’s eyes. If she had only stopped to listen, things would be different now. He had been trying to apologize, but in her fury, she had steamrolled his attempt to beg her forgiveness. The end result? She was alone and aching for him, the pain of his absence so acute her chest felt hollow, raw like a healing wound being violently ripped open again and again with each memory of him that flitted through her mind, with each passionate dream that graced her sleep.

               She had indeed tried to call Jorah’s mobile late one night a few weeks after she had sent him away. All she had gotten was a message stating the line had been disconnected. Disappointed, but undiscouraged, she had turned to the internet for information. Typing his name into a search engine had given her only one hit. He apparently had no social media accounts, had not left comments on anything anywhere online, but she actually wasn’t surprised. Jorah was a private person, not to mention, he likely didn’t want to leave much of an electronic trail given his choice of career. But that left her adrift in her emotions, all she had was the one lone photograph and her memories of him. And her sketchbooks. It wasn’t the same, wasn’t nearly enough, but it would have to do. When she couldn’t sleep, she would pull one out and peruse the pages, remembering the moments she had captured or that had inspired a particular drawing. The folded illustration she had kept hidden in the dresser drawer wasn’t hidden anymore. She kept it tucked under her pillow, and when she would get into bed, she would lay it beside her, staring at it, trying to recapture the memory of Jorah’s kiss, the feel of his arms around her, holding her against his strong form. Now, three months later, the paper was crinkled and worn from frequent handling, the ink smeared in places from her tears.

               Her day to day life had only added to her loneliness. Aerys had forbidden her from leaving the property and Gregor had become like a shadow. She was forced to internalize her emotions because if she let her father see her suffering, he would be quite pleased with himself and she’d never hear the end of it. Her bedroom became her refuge, a place where she could finally set her emotions free. The studio was closed up again too. Lisette had been relieved of her duties and given a one-way ticket back to Greece with a cheque for a large sum. _Hush money_. Doreah and Irri had only been allowed to visit once, Missandei twice, only because Daenerys had protested rather vehemently. The house hadn’t felt this cold in a very long time. There had been an ease in the air when Jorah had been there and she missed it terribly. The sense that the other shoe was about to drop had returned too. She hated that feeling, how it made her tense and anxious on top of all the other feelings tangled in her chest. But as the weeks passed and the hours of solitary contemplation grew, Daenerys realized sending Jorah away had been a huge mistake. While his betrayal still hurt, it had lessened considerably. And what he had told her was the truth. He had protected her, killed for her, but most important of all, he had loved her. And likely still did. A love that strong, that all-consuming, doesn’t just disappear. It hadn’t for her. She still loved him. Their feelings and what he had done for her didn’t absolve him of his sin completely, he would have to apologize. And if he had an opportunity to, Daenerys knew he would do so. She imagined running into him on the street or in a shop. Things would be a bit awkward at first, but knowing Jorah as she did, he would beg her forgiveness and pour his heart out to her shortly after. _Would I accept his apology_ , she thought? _Yes,_ her heart and mind answered back emphatically.

               Yesterday morning had been particularly hard. While shifting laundry into the washing machine, she’d come upon a shirt of Jorah’s at the bottom of the basket, faded blue and still faintly smelling of him. A tangible memory of his presence. Tears fell from her eyes in heavy drops and she had slumped to the cold linoleum, the fabric absorbing her sobs, memories overwhelming her. That had been what he was wearing the night he gave her the birthday gift. The night she had kissed his cheek. And it was what she had worn to sleep in _his_ bed last night, a poor substitute for having him near.

               Unable to eat anymore, the taste of the frozen treat now salty in her mouth, she set the carton aside. The sky on the horizon threatened rain again, the gray gloom succeeding in making her feel even worse. A sudden chill swept through the glass-paneled room and Daenerys decided to leave. Once back in the house, something about the eerie quiet made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Setting the carton down as quietly as she could on the counter, she moved just as silently around the kitchen’s island. Then she heard it: a short, startled male cry followed by the thunderous slamming of a door. She had heard a noise like that before and her instincts took over, a still small voice inside her head that sounded an awful lot like Jorah’s smooth tone told her to hide, and after everything she had been through, she heeded its warning. Moving as quickly and quietly as she could, she took refuge inside the maid’s broom closet, closing the door over just enough so that she could still see through the sliver of open space to the outside. A man she had never seen before entered the kitchen carrying a gun, his eyes moving over the space as he paused there. He left nearly as swiftly as he arrived, his brisk stride approaching the place where she hid. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she ducked behind a short shelving unit and held her breath. The door flew open and he peeked his head inside, his cursory inspection failing to find her. At the sound of the bolt clicking into place and rapidly retreating footsteps, her shoulders dropped and she finally exhaled. Knowing she couldn’t hide forever, Daenerys turned the handle and glanced out into the corridor, finding it empty. She slipped out and went to where she reasoned the strange sound had come from. Once inside her father’s study, she stopped short, immobile at the sight of his prone body, blood pooling and spreading rapidly under his torso, the dark red carpet now nearly black. Running to him, she dropped to her knees, her fingers pressing against the side of his throat. The pulse underneath was thready and failing fast. He coughed; the fine mist of fluid that hit her face made her flinch.

               “Important.”

               His raspy voice was nearly incomprehensible. His eyelids fluttered and he turned his head slowly to the right, his glassy eyes trained on the barely closed hand by his side. In his palm rested a gold chain with a locket. Taking it from him, she surveyed the charm, turning it over in her hand before attempting to open it. When the catch wouldn’t budge, she felt a slight indentation near the top. With a press of her index finger, out slid the USB connector of a flash drive. Depressing it back inside, her gaze fell to her father. He didn’t move, his eyes fixed and vacant. _I’m alone_ , she thought and she closed her eyes briefly. But the next thought chilled her to the bone: _now they’ll come for me_.

               Steeling herself, she began planning her escape. The safe room was no longer an option, the door to it open, the panel leading to the outside now secured with a padlock. Slipping the locket around her neck, she stood and went to the entrance of the study. Easing the door open slowly, she checked if the coast was clear. Satisfied that it seemed to be as she heard no noise and saw no one, Daenerys snuck into the short hallway and hugged the wall until she got to the foyer. The large open space was a daunting span and she would have to be fast if she was going to make it across without being seen. With a deep breath, she exited at a run, the soles of her sneakers doing a good enough job of hiding her footfalls. The promise of safety was only a few steps away now and she would be home free.

               “And just where do you think you’re going, my dear?”

               Daenerys stopped in her tracks at the reverberating click of a gun’s retracting hammer. The slight squeak of rubber on marble approached from behind and a pair of large arms wrapped around her before she could turn, lifting her from the floor in one fell swoop. Her body reacted on instinct; her fist balling up before slamming back at what she hoped was the giant man’s groin. Instead, it met the hard muscle of Gregor’s abdomen, the impact jarring the bones in her hand. She bit back a yelp of pain, the cold rumbling chuckle in response sounded like it came from the bowels of the Seven Hells.

“Let…me…go,” she screamed through gritted teeth, twisting and bucking in his hold, kicking her legs and pumping her arms in the vain hope that he would indeed release her. His grasp only got tighter, like a massive anaconda choking the very breath from its prey’s lungs. Struggling to draw air as he carried her back the way she came, he stopped in front of a bald, impeccably dressed man, one she knew instantly: The Spider.

               “If you insist on struggling like that, I’ll let him break every single one of your ribs.” His smooth, even tone belied the sickening candor of his words and she went slack, unwilling to test his resolve.  “Now that’s a good girl,” he said with a sneer. With a snap of his fingers, he motioned for a man behind him to come forward, ordering, “Search her.”

               Gregor set her down, and for an instant, she considered running, but the thought died as she noticed every single one of these men was armed. A bearded man’s hands groped her roughly, turning her stomach in the process. He stepped back with a shake of his head, but Varys’ eyes narrowed as his inspection of her stopped on the necklaces dangling around her neck. He gripped them and pulled, both chains snapping under the strain and biting at her skin. He tossed the smaller silver one to the floor in favor of the locket. He scrutinized it, his eyes meeting hers. She stared right back at him, reluctant to show any outward sign that what he held was important.

               “Did your dashing bodyguard boyfriend give you this,” he asked mockingly.

               “Yes, give it back.”

               He studied her, turning the gold charm over and over in his fingers before sucking his teeth, “Here,” he pulled open the front pocket of her jeans and let the necklace fall into it, “Hold on to it while you can because you’re coming with us.”

               The bearded man returned with a length of rope in his hand and began to bind her wrists tightly, the coarseness of the fibers abrading her skin. Gregor picked her up once more; Daenerys’ eyes now level with her father’s former business partners’. He stared at her coldly, “Where does Aerys keep his records?”

               “How should I know?” she retorted, “He never told me anything.”

               “Somehow I don’t believe you.” He sneered, “No matter, I have ways of making you talk.”

               Daenerys blanched, but regained her mettle on a deep breath. She leveled her gaze at him, “I’m not afraid of you.”

               A flash of surprise lit his eyes momentarily; apparently, he hadn’t expected her show of bravado. “You have more real fire in you than Aerys ever did. I’m sure Mr. Mormont rather enjoyed being on the receiving end of that.”

               Before she could think twice, she spat in the man’s face. If she had been free, she would have slapped him as well. How dare he insult the man she loved, the man who had protected her and kept her safe? But she instantly regretted her reaction, The Spider’s hand coming up like a snake strike to backhand her across the mouth. Pain exploded through her jaw and she felt the skin of her bottom lip give way with a burning split. A trickle of blood ran hot down her chin and dripped on the floor before she tucked the wound into her mouth and pressed her tongue against it hard in a vain attempt to stem the flow as much as the throbbing ache.

               “Gag her,” he barked, pulling a hanky from the breast pocket of his jacket to wipe away her spittle. The man who had restrained her wrists pulled a bandana from his back pocket and tied it over her mouth. Seemingly pleased by her now inability to speak, Varys gestured for the man to cover her head. Her vision was plunged into darkness and a cold wave of panic filled her. An article she had read one time said that if someone kidnaps you, it will almost always end badly. She felt herself being carried outside and then she heard a thunk. The rough lining of a car’s boot caught and pulled at her clothes as she was abruptly dumped into it. With a slam, she was thrown into a deafening near-complete silence. Then they were moving, which caused her to suddenly roll to the front, her forehead connecting hard with a metal support beam when the car pulled out onto the street and sped to its destination. Her last thought before she slipped into the inky blackness of unconsciousness was _Jorah, I need you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not including the warnings for violence and kidnapping. It would have given too much away.
> 
> Next week's chapter will be a bit more positive :)


	27. Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys is in desperate need of a rescue. Will Jorah arrive in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: graphic violence, blood and gore, swearing, angst

“Jorah, there’s something you need to hear.”

Having just arrived back from a morning intelligence briefing, he barely had a chance to remove his coat before Barristan approached his desk, a grim look on his lined face.

“What is it,” Jorah asked cautiously.

“You’d better come with me.”

Jorah’s mind started to go to dark places, imagining what was so secretive and important that his friend couldn’t wait for him to hear. He led the way down a long corridor, swiping his badge through the card reader and entering his password. Inside the cool, dimly lit room were banks of servers and agents sitting at computers monitoring digital and phone communications. Jorah had been in there only once before; the constant clamor of foreign languages was something he couldn’t get used to.

Barristan tapped a man on the shoulder and they exchanged a few words before he stood and left. The older man took his place and turned in the chair, “We’ve been monitoring Aerys’ communications through a bug planted in his home. We had reason to believe that he was going to do an information dump before we could get a chance to interrogate him. This came in just a few moments ago,” he hesitated as he handed Jorah a set of ear phones, his eyes holding a strange despondency, “I must warn you--”

“Just play it.”

With anxiety twisting in his stomach, Jorah took the headset and slipped it over his ears. At first, he heard only the hiss of dead air, but the silence was soon broken by a startled male cry and then the distinctive muffled bang of a gun fired with a silencer. He pressed the headphones tighter and closed his eyes, trying to pick out the individual noises in the cacophony. Running footfalls, drawers being pulled open and their contents being dumped onto the floor, people talking, at least two as he heard distinct vocal differences: one deep and gravely, the other smooth and refined. Both were male, speaking English, something about finding a flash drive and destroying evidence. His eyes snapped open at the sound of a feminine voice yelling for someone to let her go. _Daenerys_.

Jorah yanked off the headset and tossed it onto the tabletop. Barristan stood, reaching out to grab the younger man’s arm when he turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To save her.”

“You’re walking into a trap, you know.”

“I don’t fucking care. I swore I would protect her and that is exactly what I’m going to do.” Barristan’s hold tightened and Jorah looked down at his arm, “What--”

“You don’t have a weapon and I can’t let you do this alone.”

“I’ll improvise if I have to.” He sighed, staring at the resolution on his friend’s face, “Fine, try to keep up.”

They ran from the room to the car park. Jorah’s mind raced, he tried to formulate a plan of attack, steering his car onto the city street and breaking numerous traffic laws as he sped to her rescue.

***

               Jorah parked down the street to allow himself time to think and strategize. There were no other cars around and the air was eerily still and quiet, making him feel uneasy. He had changed into a spare pair of black Army boots he kept in his trunk, his dress shirt and tie long gone in favor of a black fitted t-shirt and dark hooded jacket. He stared straight ahead, his mind in full commando mode. It felt like the war all over again, and for a brief moment, thoughts and feelings he thought he had dealt with resurfaced. But he pushed them aside, the woman he loved was in danger and he would do _anything_ , even give his life, if it meant that she would survive.

               “Is there a back entrance to the residence?”

               “No, only one way in,” Jorah said, indicating the black wrought iron gate that stood open to the street. He turned to his friend, “You don’t have to do this.”

               “Of course I do.”

               “We’re not solders anymore.”

               “Yes, we are.” Barristan holstered his firearm, “We’re just fighting for something different now.”

               _And, of course, he’s right_ , Jorah thought. They weren’t fighting a different enemy, but for Jorah, he was fighting for love. He holstered his own weapon and exited the car, closing the door cautiously to minimize noise. They made their way down the street, eyes scanning the surroundings as they went, their pace brisk but methodical like they were sweeping a location for enemy forces. Jorah had fully expected his heart to be racing, but strangely, it was steady and sure. All of his senses felt sharp and he was completely prepared. _I guess you can never fully take the soldier out of the man_ , he mused.

They approached the open front gate with caution, staying close to the ivy-covered wall. Jorah held up an open hand and snuck a quick look around the edge of the wrought iron before he signaled all clear. They moved across the front of the property, moving swiftly from one cover location to the next, their bodies hunched to make a smaller target in case there was still someone in the residence. Jorah and Barristan stood like bookends at the open front door. Unholstering their weapons, the younger man motioned for cover then entered, gun raised, sweeping over the foyer. A scattering of glass on the floor and the glint of something shiny were the only things amiss, so he motioned Barristan in, then made his way to the hall and further on through the house.

               Jorah’s circuit brought him back to the entryway and he stopped at the shards of broken glass. That was when he noticed two small perfectly circular drops of blood. Needles of icy dread started to pierce at his heart. He crouched; the droplets were completely coagulated, which meant it had been more than thirty minutes since the individual had shed it. The broken glass appeared to be the remnants of a shattered tumbler, but he gave it no further consideration. There were no smears of red on it, so it likely hadn’t been used to inflict injury. He tried not to think that this spilt blood had come from Daenerys, but he feared that it had and that made his uneasiness increase tenfold. The silvery object he had seen was the necklace he had given Daenerys. He picked it up and held it in his hand, surveying the ruined clasp. Panic clutched at his heart and he suddenly felt sick,  _Gods, what if I’m too late_.

               “Jorah, you need to see this,” Barristan called from the study.

Slipping the necklace into his pocket, he stood, making his way to the sound of his friend’s voice. Once inside the room, his eyes alighted on Aerys’ dead body, lying in a pool of his own bodily fluids by the desk. Jorah’s fingers rasped over his jaw, “The house is clear. They have her.”  

               Turning in place, he scanned the room in hopes that _something_ would trigger a memory or possible location for where they could be holding her. ‘They’ were no mystery to him; at least he knew the identity of one of her kidnappers. Whoever Gregor was working in concert with would be revealed in due time. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the photograph on the wall and the recollection of his conversation with Daenerys replayed in his head. Walking to the frame, he took it off the wall and removed the back, hoping for information to be inscribed on the obverse, but found nothing. Flipping it over, he remembered that she had told him she had spent a day there.

               “Who is that?”

               “Daenerys didn’t know his name, but said that he was her father’s business partner and that he had insisted on being referred to as ‘The Spider’.”

               “Wait; did you say ‘The Spider’?” Jorah nodded and Barristan sighed heavily, retrieving his phone from his pocket. He made a quick call, exchanging only a few words before ending it, “Varys is his name and he is Aerys’ middle man to several international terror groups. I knew I had heard that alias before; I just needed a reminder.”

               “This photo was taken at a place called King’s Landing, a large horse stable about twenty-five kilometres south of here. It’s the only lead we have.” He fixed Barristan with a look, “Let’s go.”

               Making their way back to the car, Jorah entered the name of the location into the dash navigation, the computer giving them two possible routes. Choosing the shortest, fastest one, he exceeded the speed limit as they merged onto the motorway that led into the country. Traffic was light, and since it was midday, the distance passed in a blur. _Hold on, love,_ Jorah thought, _I’m on my way._

***

Voices, distant, distorted, like they were trapped underwater or at one end of a long tunnel. The scent of hay and manure. Darkness. _I can’t move_ , Daenerys realized, her hands tied behind her. Her head hurt something awful, pounding pain radiating from the left side. It took quite a bit of effort to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, not to mention, trying to swallow, her throat like old parchment. She felt faintly dizzy, but the sensation was fading quickly.

“Yes, she’s here.”

That smooth, refined voice, suddenly crystal clear.  _Who’s he talking to? We’re alone…I think._

“Don’t worry, we’ll get out of her what you want to know.”

_He’s on his mobile._ ‘I have ways of making you talk,’ his earlier promise sending her gut churning. But the tiny sliver of hope that wouldn’t go away, the one she now clung fiercely to in her heart, kept whispering one thing. A name. _Jorah._

_Please find me._

***

               Parking far down the road, they hiked the rest of the way in. The property was sprawling, several buildings, large and small, scattered through the acreage. Reaching the mechanized gate, they crouched behind the shrub-lined wooden fence. Jorah scanned the structures, looking for evidence of recent activity, before he stopped on a large barn-like building, its doors open, a black sedan parked in front.

               “There, that’s where they’re keeping her,” he indicated with a nod of his head, “We should separate, you take the left side, I’ll move along the back of the stables and approach from the rear. I’ve seen two guards milling about so far, but they’re moving in a predictable pattern.”

               Leading the way, Jorah hopped the low fence before hunkering down behind some low bushes. A hunting knife strapped to his calf and gun at his side, he darted to the safety of an empty stable. Hugging its rear wall, he jogged as quietly as possible along the length of it until he came to the corner. A guard in black clothing paced nearby, a rifle slung across his body. Jorah prepared himself to do what needed to be done in order to save Daenerys’ life, knowing full well that the only way to permanently subdue these men would be to kill them, an end they well deserved for hurting the woman he loved. He waited until the man was only a short distance away before he rushed him from behind, putting him into a rear-naked choke hold. The guard struggled, but Jorah held firm, holding it for far longer than was necessary. He dragged his now lifeless body around to the side of the building, away from the line of sight.

The next safe location was several metres away in the form of a large wooden shed. He ran for cover just as the next guard was rounding the corner. Slipping the knife from its sheath, Jorah held it in a reverse grip, the edge of the blade facing out, while he waited for his perfect opportunity. Just as the man took three steps into the open, he wrapped his right arm around the guard’s neck and plunged the knife down behind his collarbone and into his heart, tearing through the pericardium and into the pumping muscle underneath. Letting him fall from his hold, Jorah watched the man spend his last agonizing moments alive writhing on the ground before finally going still.

Glancing back, he saw Barristan making his way to the building just in front of the stables before dispatching a guard Jorah hadn’t noticed earlier with an expert snap of his neck. _He’s still got it_ , Jorah thought, slowly moving around the side of the shed, pausing for his friend’s all clear signal. Once he saw it, he ran for the barn and braced his back to the wall. That was when he heard it, the faint _twang_ of a metal wire being tripped. _Shite_ , he cursed inwardly at his lack of awareness, knowing full well he had just set off a silent alarm, exactly like the one he had installed in Daenerys’ house the first week he arrived.

***

“Well, well, my dear, someone’s here to rescue you after all.”

The man’s smooth voice intoned and she turned her head to one side then the other, trying to discern where it was coming from. The hood whipped from her head and she squinted at the brightness of the light that seared her retinas through dilated pupils. Daenerys tried to jerk from his hand as it held the lower half of her face in its strong grasp, “Don’t worry, you’ll see his face again before I blow it off.”

He let her go with a hard shove before he turned and nodded to the two men standing by the door, “Go, bring him to me.”

***

Jorah saw two men exit the barn, one significantly larger than the other. The shorter man ran away from where he waited and straight into where he knew Barristan was taking cover. Gregor stood, gun drawn, slowly surveying the area around him. From his position crouched behind a rain barrel only three metres away, Jorah knew he had to get the drop on him, seeing as this man had a distinct height advantage. Taking his gun from his holster, he peered around the corner and aimed, firing one round center mass. It may as well have been a fly that hit the giant as he raised his own weapon, firing off rounds in quick succession. Ducking for cover, Jorah waited for the tell-tale sound of an ejected clip before he rose over the top of the barrel and fired again twice more. The shots hit him square in the chest, but still, he advanced. After three shots, he was sure the man should be grievously injured, but Gregor raised his arm and fired again. Now, exposed, out in the open, Jorah thought he dodged the bullet, but once the pain lanced through his arm and down across his chest, he knew he had been hit. But he shrugged it off and fired one last time, this shot going straight through the man’s forehead, his body crumpling like a rag doll.

In the distance, he heard exchanged gun fire then a deafening silence. Barristan staggered out from behind a car, clutching his left thigh in his hand, the skin bathed red with blood. His friend slumped to the ground, leaning back against a tire. Jorah ran to the edge of the barn, watching the other man flash the a-ok signal to him, even though his face said otherwise. With a quick glance around the corner, he made his way to the barn’s entrance. Leaning against the door, he peeked inside, the interior too dark to make out any real detail.

“It is so good of you to join us, Jorah Mormont.” It was the refined voice from the surveillance recording that called out to him. A pause and then the man spoke again, “Throw your weapon through the door and come in with your hands raised or I’ll blow her head off.”

With no other choice, he tossed the gun onto the dirt floor and walked inside. The change from sunlight to darkened indoors took a second to adjust to, but once he did, his stomach fell. Daenerys sat in a high-backed chair, her hands bound to the wood behind her. And at her back stood Varys, his expertly tailored suit crisp and impeccable, nothing out of place. He held a gun to her head, the polished silver metal gleaming.

“Let her go.”

The bald man tilted his head to the side, “Now why would I ever do a thing like that?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“I cannot leave anything to chance. I am sure you can understand, Mormont,” Varys eased back the hammer and Jorah watched Daenerys turn away, “Now, I think I will leave it up to you to decide who I kill first. You or your Maiden Fair?

“Kill me first. But I have one request before you do,” he said, hoping it would stall the other man long enough so he could improvise _something_ , “Let me say goodbye to her.”

Varys appeared to be mulling it over as he looked between them. He rolled his eyes, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, make it quick. I have somewhere I need to be.”

Jorah approached her and dropped to his knees at her feet. His eyes moved over her face, surveying the spreading bruise across her cheek, the bloody knot on her forehead, and her angry, swollen bottom lip. He cradled her jaw in his hands and she leaned into his touch, sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Daenerys,” her shimmering violet eyes met his earnest blue ones, “I will always love you.”

“Jorah.” The breaking of her voice shattered his heart and he leaned in, pressing his lips gently to her forehead before standing again. Their gazes locked and he noticed a shift in her eyes from fear to determination. She sniffled loudly, and in an utterly calm voice that stunned him, said, “Je suis un petit taureau.”

It was the only warning he received before she stood suddenly and rammed Varys with the legs of the chair, knocking him off balance, the perfect diversion. Jorah lunged for the unsteady man, fighting for the gun in his hands, using the momentum to his advantage. The men jostled and fought while they stumbled, the gun discharging into the rafters. On the wall behind Varys hung several old grain cradles, their rusting spikes still sharp and imposing. Jorah hooked his foot around the man’s ankle and planted the other, tripping him backward. He fell with a sickening squelch onto the metal protrusions, his body convulsing as he coughed, blood spewing from his gurgling throat before he breathed his last.

Jorah let the gun drop to the floor, then ran to Daenerys, crouching at her side to untie the rope from around her wrists so he could pull her into his arms. They clung to one another, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her body shaking. His own tears threatened to fall as he pulled back and looked at her, his hands smoothing the hair away from her face, “You’re hurt.”

She watched him check her over, following the rapid track of his eyes, “Not too bad.”

Taking her hand, he stood and led her at a jog from the barn. Barristan tried to stand, but his legs gave out and he fell back heavily against the car, dark red blood staining the dirt. Jorah crouched at the man’s side, unzipped his jacket and tied it around the wound.

“Did it go clean through?”

“I think so,” he rasped, grimacing when Jorah rested the elevated limb against his knee and applied direct pressure to staunch the bleeding.

Daenerys knelt at his side, her widening eyes taking in the blood staining the skin of his left arm, “Jorah, you’re hurt too.”

“It’s nothing,” he said with a quick glance at his shoulder. The sleeve was torn, its ragged edges wet, he mentally assessed his wound. It throbbed painfully, the trickle of blood down his arm meant he was bleeding enough to make it bothersome, and possibly, life-threatening.

“Don’t we make a fine pair? Just like old times, yeah,” Barristan groaned through a tight-lipped smile.

Jorah knew he was trying to downplay the severity of his injury with humor for the sake of Daenerys. The blood had soaked through the makeshift dressing and seeped between his fingers while he held it there, the bodily fluid hot and sticky on his skin.

“The Omega Team is on their way, ten minutes out. You two need to get out of here.”

“A soldier doesn’t leave a man behind,” Jorah said, the hard edge to his voice halting any further argument from his friend.

The ten minutes seemed to drag on forever, the scent of wet copper getting stronger with each passing moment, the puddle expanding until the knee of Jorah’s pants grew wet. Barristan looked pale, his breathing labored.

“Hold on, Selmy, just a bit longer.”

The man’s gaze fixed into the distance before he squinted, “Unless I’m hallucinating, I don’t think there’s more than one angel of death.”

Jorah turned and saw a team of men in black tactical gear, guns drawn, moving in wedge formation, sweeping the area. One of them broke off from the group and ran to them, crouching at Barristan’s side. He got on his radio and requested an emergency vehicle, an ambulance appearing a short while later. Two men emerged from the rear, a stretcher between them. Jorah and Daenerys stepped back; watching while he was secured then wheeled to the vehicle and loaded inside.

“You should ride with him and get that arm taken care of. We’ll take it from here,” the young solider said.

With a nod, he led her to the open doors, helping her to step up into the vehicle before following after. The medics were busy stabilizing his friend and Jorah took the opportunity to glance at the woman next to him, her eyes fixed on his injured friend, unable to look away from the horrific scene.

“Daenerys,” he said softly.

Her head turned, but her gaze was glazed over, her mind unsure of how to process the information overload. Jorah took her hand in his and it seemed to clear the cobwebs a bit and she blinked rapidly, “Is he gonna be ok?”

He heard the worry in her voice and his reply was the best he could offer, “He’s in good hands now.”

***

The ride to the hospital was faster than Jorah expected. Once in the unloading bay, the doors to the vehicle flew open and the stretcher was pulled out. Then everything was a flurry of activity as they pushed him quickly through the automatic double doors and down the sterile semi-crowded hallway. A tall heavy-set young man fell into step next to the medics while they wheeled him into a trauma room. A nurse approached Jorah, and with one look at his arm, guided him to the treatment area. When she tried to prevent Daenerys from entering, Jorah gruffly snapped, “She stays.”

His voice left no room for an argument and the woman departed with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow. Now alone, an uncomfortable hush came between them. Daenerys worried the sheet between her fingers before she lifted her head to find him staring at her, his features set in that all-too-familiar soft expression he reserved only for her.

She offered him a halfhearted smile, but it quickly gave way to concern, “I can’t believe you got hurt again.”

“It’s not that bad. Certainly not a stab wound.”

His small smile was conspiratorial and she gave him one back, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hand rested over his and he longed to intertwine their fingers. “I am sorry about your father, Daenerys.”

               “It may be awful of me, but I’m not. He never loved me. The only thing that makes me sad about the whole thing is that he wasn’t a better father.”

He let the words hang in the air, unsure of what to say to comfort her. He was rescued by the opening of the curtain, the man they saw before stood at the foot of the bed, “You came in with Mr. Selmy, correct?”

“Yes, how is he,” Jorah queried.

“The bullet went clean through, but there was damage to two major muscles in his thigh as well as the perforating veins. Had the bullet been three centimetres laterally, your friend wouldn’t be alive right now. They’ve taken him for an operation, but he is expected to make a full recovery.”

Jorah let out a sigh of relief before he said, “Thank you, Doctor…”

“Tarly,” he supplied with a smile, “I’ll have a nurse come in to see to that arm.”

He left, pulling the curtain closed behind him. They didn’t have to wait long before the woman from earlier returned and set to work cleaning the wound. It required several stitches, both internally and externally, and Daenerys held Jorah’s hand, more for herself than for his support. When she had sent him away, she had been convinced that she would never see him again. Even though she had told him to stay away, he couldn’t, not when her life was at risk. Jorah had made a vow to her, a promise to always protect her. And he had risked his life to accomplish it. He had kept his word.

The abrasions on her wrists stung and had bled slightly where the rope had cut into her skin. Once the nurse was finished with Jorah, she tended to Daenerys’ injuries, cleaning and bandaging her wrists as well as seeing to the cut on her bottom lip and the injury to her forehead, following the protocol to check her for a possible concussion. Dr. Tarly came back to the room while the nurse was working on her, letting them know the hospital would contact them with an update on Mr. Selmy’s condition before leading them to the nurses’ station so they could be discharged.

Clouds had rolled in while they were inside, turning the sky a dreary gray and the air chilly. With no means of getting home, Daenerys began to wonder if she even had a home to go to now. Given her father’s murder and the likelihood that the residence was now a crime scene, she probably wouldn’t be allowed back in for some time, if ever again. Surprisingly, that didn’t bother her as much as she had thought it would. That place had never been home, not even when her mother had been alive. Still, now she was homeless and likely penniless too. She thought of Missandei, her friend wouldn’t hesitate to let her stay with her for as long as she needed. But she worried that it would put her at risk as she didn’t know who else might still be after her. Then she looked at Jorah, watching him dial someone on his mobile. Would he let her stay with him? She felt safest when he was near, but things were strained between them and they had not hashed out their problem, the proverbial elephant in the room of his betrayal. If she was honest with herself, she had already forgiven him. But he didn’t know that and she wanted to keep it that way, at least until he offered an apology.

“Someone from Barristan’s unit is coming to get us,” he interrupted her thoughts, “We’ll spend time at a few safe houses until we get the all clear.”

“Oh,” was all she could say. She really didn’t know what to think of their impending living situation.

Jorah didn’t seem to either; he seemed tense now standing beside her. It reminded her of the day her father had arrived home from the hospital. He had been uncharacteristically quiet that morning, moving almost automatically through his tasks. She didn’t like this sudden change in him. Inside the treatment room, he had been the man she had fallen in love with, supportive, reassuring. Her rock in the storm of her emotions and thoughts. Now she felt adrift, barely treading the murky water in her frazzled mind. Suddenly cold, and not from the weather, she hugged herself and felt the overwhelming emotions finally pull her under.

He noticed the change in her immediately but was powerless to do anything to help her. He didn’t know how far he could push things with her. Would she accept his comforting embrace or push him away? Jorah didn’t know where he stood with her yet and he certainly didn’t want to step too far too soon and risk ruining any chance he had at receiving her forgiveness. He made up his mind then that he would let her dictate the pace, allow her to decide what happened and when. It pained him to do it, he wanted nothing more than to hold her and make all of the agonizing memories disappear forever.

They were both saved from the awkward silence by the arrival of a black sedan with tinted windows. A man emerged, dressed in dark clothes, and opened the back door for them with a brisk nod, his face expressionless. Once they were seated in the backseat, he shut the door and took his place in the driver’s seat again. Then they were off, driving toward an unknown location and into unfamiliar territory.


	28. Safe Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah spend their first night in the safe house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: angst

The black sedan made a left into a nondescript alleyway, driving all the way to the end before making a right and coming to a stop. Jorah thanked the driver, then got out, coming around and opening Daenerys’ door. The two-story brick building shielded them from the street, offering them protection from anyone who might have been following behind. But their driver was one of the best, constantly checking his rearview mirror and taking what was likely a circuitous route from the hospital to get them here.

               It was early dusk, a soft, misting rain had begun to fall, a chill starting to take hold too. Jorah gestured to the lone heavy metal door nearby and Daenerys walked toward it with him following just a step behind. She glanced over her shoulder and noticed his eyes darting this way and that before his head tilted back slightly to check the rooftops around them. His hyper vigilance barely took the edge off her anxiety; she didn’t know why she suddenly felt so jumpy. At the hospital, she had felt decidedly calmer, but perhaps it was because they had been surrounded by people and anyone trying to harm her would have had a hard time getting past security, not to mention, an injured Jorah. He pressed a button for the intercom and a woman’s voice crackled from the speaker, asking them something about the Queen Mother and her dislike of plaid umbrellas. Jorah’s response, _well, she’s always hated Scotland_ , was equally strange, but she figured it was some sort of secret spy code necessary to grant them entry. The door buzzed, then swung slowly open to reveal a tiny, dimly lit foyer. A staircase to the left lead upstairs and they took it, the door clanging shut behind them and plunging them into near darkness. Daenerys jumped, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. She froze; suddenly she was back in the boot of that car, the darkened claustrophobia engulfing her once more. The hallway seemed to tilt, draw in one her, and she closed her eyes, her breath coming in quick, short draws. _Please make it stop_ , she begged her frazzled mind, her two-handed grip tight on the bannister.

               “Daenerys, I’m here.” Jorah’s hand came to rest gently on her shoulder and she tensed further. She heard movement and her eyes shot open to find that he now stood in front of her. The ghost of his touch still clung to her shoulder and she missed the warm reassurance of it desperately. Her gaze was wide and terrified meeting his concerned one and his large hands came to rest over hers, “You’re safe now.”

               His words only helped a little, her pulse rushing through her veins, her constricted chest making it hard to breathe. He seemed to notice, his fingers starting to gently pry hers from around the wooden bannister before taking her ice-cold hands in his own and bringing them up to rest against his steadily beating heart. “Breathe with me, Daenerys.”

               Her gaze dropped to his chest, watching the slow, easy rise and fall of the broad expanse, willing her body to meet its cadence. And, slowly, in the low yellowed light of that narrow stairwell, it did, his warmth bleeding into her body from where they were connected. His touch had always been an anchor in whatever storm they had faced, the quiet strength in his calm, gentle blue eyes had been her harbor many a time too. Just as it was now, when she needed it most, communicating to her without words just what her heart and soul needed in the stranglehold of her panic attack. She needed reassurance and support. _Comfort_. And he offered it willingly.

               He didn’t rush her, Jorah knew how trauma could affect the mind, and in turn, the body. He watched her, looking for signs that signaled the attack had passed. The tenseness in her frame eased with each slow breath, her eyes fixated on his now. If she had been searching for something in those blue depths, she must have found it, the tightness around her shimmering violet irises easing too. It was tears he saw welling in the corners and his heart clenched at her sadness and fear. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to take her in his arms and hold her close; letting his body tell her she was safe with him once more. But he pushed that thought aside; he wouldn’t do anything of the sort until she initiated the contact. He had hurt and betrayed her after all; taking a bullet and saving her life didn’t absolve him of his sin. He would wait for her forgiveness, if it ever came at all. He was prepared for her to send him away again once everything had calmed and her life had returned to its version of normalcy. _Don’t lie to yourself; you aren’t prepared for that_ , he thought. And he wasn’t, the thought of a life without her in it in some way was unthinkable. But he would have to manage someway, _somehow_ , if that was what she wanted.

               She took one last deep breath, her thumbs pulling free of his delicate hold to brush over the back of his hands, “Okay.”

               He searched her face just to be sure, then nodded, falling into step beside her as she slowly made the rest of the journey upstairs. He knocked twice in quick succession and the door opened, a middle-aged woman with a short bob haircut greeting them with a curt nod. She stepped aside to let them in, the open floor plan not affording them much by the way of privacy, the small space sparsely furnished.

               The woman seemed to notice the look on Daenerys’ face, “I know it isn’t much, but this is the only one we had available on such short notice. But there is food in the pantry and refrigerator, clean towels in the bathroom,” she looked them up and down, taking in their bloody, disheveled appearance, “and new clothes in the bag on the table.” She moved to the door after handing Jorah a single key on a keyring and an old flip-style mobile phone, “We’ll be by to take you to the next location in three days. If you need anything, ring us.”

               And, with that, she was gone, leaving them alone in the silence. Jorah closed the door and locked it, the lone bulb hanging above the bare round wooden dining table, flanked by two matching chairs, barely provided a circle of light beyond it. Daenerys wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the cold of the room. Jorah noticed and made his way to the radiator by the lone window, a blind drawn to block the view. He crouched beside it, fiddling with the control to get it working. He turned the knob this way and that, but nothing happened. That was when he noticed the space heater by the couch and realized that would be the sole source of heat. He turned it on to the highest setting it would allow and moved to the table, removing the contents of the bag, two of each piece of clothing: t-shirt, jumper, and sweatpants in dark colors, one outfit decidedly larger than the other. He separated the clothes into two piles, then turned to find she hadn’t moved from her spot near the door. Jorah addressed her quietly, “Daenerys, go get cleaned up. I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

               She nodded mutely and made her way to the table, grabbing the smaller pile and moving toward the only other room in the small flat. Once she had the door to the bathroom closed, the clothes fell to the floor and she exhaled shakily. Even being this far from Jorah’s presence had a particularly disconcerting effect on her. She felt colder, empty and utterly alone, a sensation of hollowness in her chest that made her want to fling open the door and run into Jorah’s arms. Being held in his strong embrace, she had felt shielded from every encroaching evil, protected and safe. But most importantly, she had felt _loved_ and she wondered if that feeling would still be there now after she had discovered what he had done. Who was she kidding though, her heart longed for him and it had soon after she had sent him away. She had made a grave mistake that afternoon, but it was done and couldn’t simply be erased like an errant pencil mark. She would have to live with that decision, but it didn’t mean that whatever future they had together would be defined by it. They could move past it, just as they had survived everything else. **_If_** _he wanted that_ , her mind reminded her. She shook her head hard, _don’t think that way, of course he wants that. He’s probably waiting for me to make the first move_.

               Walking to the shower and sliding back one side of the frosted glass doors, she turned the silver knobs until the water issued from the showerhead. Undressing carefully so as not to disturb the bandages at her wrists and forehead, she stepped into the tiny stall, just out of reach of the spray. She put her hand under it, but jerked it back as if she had been burned, letting out a startled yelp in the process. The water was ice cold and it seeped through the gauze and met her raw wounds; clearly, she had not given it enough time to warm up. The pain of it made her hiss, her dry hand coming to wrap around it to quell the throbbing in her nerves. Tears began to well in her eyes and she closed them, the wetness slipping down her cheeks. And then she was there again, in the foyer of her home, the man tying her wrists tight with the rough rope, looking a bit too gleeful at her obvious discomfort. Her knees gave out and she landed hard in a heap on the cold, wet tile floor, her arms coming to wrap around her drawn-up knees as she began to sob, her body starting to rock back and forth in an effort to comfort herself, but it was futile. She barely noticed the sound of a voice from the other side of the door.

“Daenerys? Are you all right?”

               There was no response and his worry began to grow. _Perhaps she’s fainted_ , he wondered and was about to knock again when he heard sobs coming from inside. It was quickly followed by an anguished cry of his name and he wasted no time before barging in to find her collapsed on the floor of the shower, tears streaming down her pale face. She was muttering something he couldn’t make out and he was at her side in no time, crouching to gather her to him. He barely registered her nakedness, his priority was to get her dry and clothed. He pulled her into his arms bridal-style and grabbed a towel on his way out. She clung to him fiercely, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her body shaking with the strength of her emotion as much as from the cold. His stitches pulled and protested at the weight he carried, but he ignored the pain and focused on the woman in his arms, sitting on the bed with her in his lap, wrapping the large, fluffy towel around her. He rubbed it over her upper arms, suffusing its warmth into her form as he further dried her off. Her teeth chattered behind pale blue lips, her gaze distant and unfocused, her mind trapped somewhere in the events of that afternoon.

               “Daenerys,” he said softly, inclining his head to meet her eyes, “Daenerys, look at me.” She slowly came back to the present, blinking rapidly to clear her head. Bloodshot eyes looked back at him, but she was clearly in the moment with him once more. “That’s it,” he soothed, brushing her hair back from her face so he could see her better. His hand came to rest on her shoulder and they stared at one another for some time, her body no longer trembling from the cold. Her hand appeared from under the towel to wipe at her nose and cheeks, a purely automatic reaction. He made to move her to the bed, but she began to panic again, her fingers gripping his shirt, keeping him near her, “Don’t leave me, Jorah.”

               He met her eyes once more, his heart breaking at the fear in her voice, “I won’t leave you, Daenerys. I’m just going to get some tissues.” 

               She surveyed him with a wide gaze, then slowly nodded. He shifted her to the bed, then rose to retrieve the clean clothes from the floor and then some tissues before pulling a face cloth from the shelf and turning on the hot water faucet at the sink, waiting for it to warm before putting the small towel under the heated stream to dampen it. He returned to her and crouched at her feet, using the warm cloth to gently clean her face and neck, removing most of the dirt and the residual blood from the ordeal from her skin. She watched him; his determined gaze focused on the task at hand. He worked methodically, but with a delicate touch, mindful that being too rough might trigger some sort of bad memory. When he was done, he set it aside and handed her the tissues, letting her blot her eyes and blow her nose. He noticed how her hands were shaking and he took them in his own, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the backs of them.

               “What’s wrong with me,” she croaked, her voice breaking on the words.

               He moved to sit next to her on the bed, “You’re in shock. It’s the body’s way of dealing with intense trauma.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, “It is a perfectly natural, normal reaction. There is _nothing_ wrong with you.”

               “Why aren’t you acting like this? You went through an ordeal too and you were shot.”

               He let out a slow breath, “War has a way of changing someone. And not for the better.”

               The resignation in his eyes spoke volumes, he didn’t have to tell her that fighting for your life and the lives of others day in and day out often caused people to become desensitized to certain things, taught them to compartmentalize certain emotions, and she figured that was the case with him. Reacting like she was now could get you or the men under your command killed, so there was no place for falling apart in a warzone.

               They sat in silence for a while before she slipped her hands from his, instantly regretting the loss of his warmth, “I should get dressed.”

               He cleared his throat and stood, turning away from her, “Right…yes, of course.”

               Daenerys could have sworn Jorah was flustered, and when she stood, she realized it was for a good reason. She had completely forgotten she was nearly naked and clutched the towel to her body to cover herself. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen her nude many times before, it was different now and would be until they dealt with their bottled-up feelings. She knew she had them buried deep in her heart and she knew Jorah well enough that he always tried to bury his feelings until he couldn’t hold them any longer and he let them spill forth in a rush. She pulled on the clothes, the jumper and sweatpants swimming on her petite frame. She tied the drawstring as tight as she could, but they still hung low on her hips.

               “Okay.”

               He faced her again, his eyes sweeping over her face. Strangely, for the first time, she couldn’t read him. His eyes were no longer the window to his emotions and she felt horribly adrift in that lack of knowledge. They had always been the one place she could look to know what he was thinking or feeling, but he had obviously taken great pains now to remain closed off. That was when she realized he was trying to be strong for her, her harbor in the storm that was her over-taxed psyche. She didn’t doubt that he was concerned or that he cared for her, his previous actions had spoken quite loudly of that fact. She understood now that he was dialing back on how much of his feelings were on display, to give her space to calm her anxiety. To heal. She couldn’t deal with them now anyway and it didn’t seem like Jorah wanted to either. He had moved away from her to collect his clothes from the table and was making his way to the bathroom to most likely shower and change.

               “I’ll change your bandage when I come back,” he said from the doorway, gesturing at the sodden dressing on her right wrist.

               He waited for her acknowledging nod, then disappeared behind the bathroom door. She was alone again, the deafening silence oppressing her with its heavy weight. There was no TV in the living space to distract her and the shelves were bare of books. The lady wasn’t kidding, it really was spartan accommodations, but they would only be there for three days and she didn’t really have any sort of desire to read or do much of anything. She was suddenly very exhausted and her limbs felt like dead weight, so she pulled back the covers and crawled underneath. It took a while for them to absorb her body heat, but soon, her eyelids grew heavy and she slipped into sleep.

               Jorah emerged from the bathroom feeling a bit better, certainly cleaner. He hadn’t showered, but rather wiped away the worst of the grime with a wet facecloth, mindful of his bandaged shoulder. It throbbed something fierce and he had lifted the corner of the bandage to check how it looked. It appeared fine, which was a good thing. He didn’t need an infection right now, but they had given him a shot of heavy-duty antibiotics at the A&E, so he wasn’t all that concerned. He knew, however, that he couldn’t take the pain killers they had given him. They would slow him down, make him drowsy and he couldn’t risk it with her there.

               Speaking of Daenerys, he only now just realized that she was curled up beneath the covers, fast asleep. He stood and watched her, the blissfulness of slumber erasing the lines of worry from her forehead. Even now, after everything, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, and in that moment, he vowed to do everything in his power to earn her forgiveness and her love. A life without her was no life at all and he wouldn’t live it.

               “I never should have left your side, then none of this would have happened,” he whispered, but she didn’t stir. He hazarded a step closer, then another, crouching by the bedside so he could look at her. “Daenerys, I never meant to hurt you. Gods, I’m--,” his voice broke, a tear spilling over and down his cheek. He hung his head, his vision wavering with growing moisture. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, then rested it gently on the duvet near her own, “I don’t know what I was thinking—if I was even thinking at all. I should have—”

               He couldn’t get the rest of the words past the lump in his throat, so with one last look at her sleeping form, he stood and made his way to the linen closet. Getting into bed with her would definitely be pushing his luck, so he grabbed a blanket and got as comfortable as he could on the couch. It wasn’t long enough to handle his tall frame, but he made due, Daenerys’ comfort first and foremost in his mind. He lay awake, his ears picking up on the sound of her soft, even breathing. Memories flooded him, his hand coming up to rub idly at his chest, the phantom feeling of her breath tickling the hair there. Without his permission, his mind replayed the last time she had laid her head there, her body curled against him. It had been the last time they had made love, the night before his world shattered with her tearful banishment. He closed his eyes tight and shook his head; it would do him no good to think of those times again. Once MI:5 gave Jorah the all-clear that she was no longer under any threat, she would likely send him away again and the thought of it hurt worse than being shot. He sighed and turned onto his good side, waiting for sleep to overtake him. But when it did, he wished it hadn’t. His dreams were not sweet and his rest was fitful. It would be a long three days.


	29. A Step in The Right Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A touch and some words are all it takes to get things moving in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: angst, feels

           The time spent at the second safe house passed by in much the same way as the first. Daenerys slept most of the time, rising only to eat and go to the bathroom. She didn’t say much either, save for the few times she asked him to help her change her bandages. He would, with a gentle hand and tender care. It pained him to think that he hadn’t been there to stop them from hurting her, more guilt to join with what he already felt. Jorah wasn’t surprised that Daenerys had turned inward, a damaged psyche healed on its own timetable and in its own way. However, by the third safe house, there was a breakthrough of sorts. He was preparing dinner and a stubbornly sealed bag of pasta refused to open. Fed up, he exerted more force than was actually necessary and the plastic gave way in spectacular fashion, a shower of rotini noodles blanketing the countertop and floor around his feet. That was when he heard it, soft laughter coming from his left side. He turned to find Daenerys standing there, a brightness in her eyes that he hadn’t seen since their last night together, a dimple faintly visible on her cheek. He couldn’t help the smile that curved the corners of his own mouth. He had been very worried about her, but the appearance of that smile was a very encouraging sign. _A step in the right direction._ And it was only uphill from there. The fourth flat they stayed in was an improvement over the previous three, equipped with a TV and an assortment of board games. She asked to play with him and he readily agreed, knowing that distractions were key to healing from a trauma. Daenerys began to smile more, and much to his relief, even started initiating more contact between them. The first real contact they had in such a long time. Sure, these touches now were only light and fleeting: on his forearm, hand, or shoulder, but they were still blessed contact that he hadn’t realized he had been craving from her.

           Nevertheless, there were still those unspoken feelings between them and Jorah felt them just as acutely as he figured Daenerys did, if her lingering, sidelong glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking were any indication. He dared not mention anything though, for he feared he would lose all of the progress they had made and she would slip back into her protective shell. Jorah was an infinitely patient man, a trait that he prized right now more than he ever had. When she was ready, they would talk. Little did he know it would happen sooner than he had expected.

           The fifth safe house was the best by far, elegantly furnished and containing only the best amenities. The man who had handed over the key to this one was an American, an agent from the CIA on loan for a special assignment that had just wrapped up. Apparently, visiting spies got the best accommodations. But Jorah was thankful nonetheless because when he saw Daenerys’ eyes light up as she surveyed the place, it made the dreariness of the other locations worth it. The food in the refrigerator wasn’t military rations or even Government Issue; it was wild caught Scottish salmon filets, tender filet mignon medallions, and juicy chicken breasts. They ate like Kings and Queens that first night with Jorah preparing the fish and Daenerys in charge of the vegetables and wild rice. The conversation was easy between them, and if he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought that nothing had happened between them, as if their relationship had skipped over the last three months entirely. After they rinsed their plates and cleaned up, Jorah excused himself. He didn’t tell her that it was to check his wound. He didn’t want to worry her, but it had been itching of late. He closed the bathroom door halfway and gingerly pulled off his navy Henley, removing the bandage to examine it. He saw no redness or any signs of infection, it looked normal, the itching simply a product of the healing process.

           “Jorah, do you wa--”

           Daenerys stood in the doorway, her hand frozen on the doorknob. Her lips remained softly parted as if she was merely waiting for her mind to kick back into action, her gaze lingering on his chest. He was frozen too, watching the details of her reaction flit across her features. And then he felt it, faint at first, like the brush of a feather against your skin, then stronger, like a shock of static electricity when you touch metal. It was that crackling energy he had felt when he they were alone and standing close and it skittered across his nerves and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. She must have felt it too; her wide eyes that had been trained on his now darted away. She cleared her throat, her hand coming up to tuck non-existent strands of hair behind her ear before fiddling with the end of her braid.

           “I--um, well, I wanted to know if you wanted some tea. I was going to make some for…,” her nervous rambling trailed off. She was trying her hardest not to look at his bare chest, but she lost that battle, her eyes drifting back to study him.

           He knew he had to be the one to save her from her flustered state, so he smiled and moved to put his clothing back on, “No, I’m all right, th-”

           “Wait,” she interjected, her hand darting out to grab his shirt, “Your shoulder. How is it?”

           He glanced down, though he didn’t know why, he had just been looking at it. “It’s healing nicely.”

           “Can I see it?”

           He was surprised. “All right.”

           Jorah lowered his arms and stood still as she approached, her head tilting to one side, her hand coming up to ghost over the skin around the stitches. Gooseflesh bloomed over his torso, nearly making him shiver. “Does it hurt?”

           She was looking up at him, her brow tense with concern. “Not much anymore.”

           He felt the warm brush of her breath against his shoulder; she was standing so close to him now, his hands clenching the fabric of his shirt tight in an effort to control himself. She had done this once before, in a bathroom a few months ago, his mind continuing his thought with what had happened after she had traced his scars with her fingertips. He swallowed roughly and tried to derail his train of thought, but then she was looking at him again, something faint flickering in those violet irises. _Desire._ Disbelief filled him; it couldn’t possibly be true. After everything, could she really still want him that way? But before he could look again to be sure, it had disappeared and she had stepped back. “I--I’ll be in the sitting room.”

           And she was gone in a swish of her long, silver braid, leaving Jorah immobile and alone with his feelings. He replaced the bandage in an almost robotic manner, his mind far away from there, reflecting on what had just transpired between them. Upon leaving the bathroom, he noticed Daenerys wasn’t where she said she would be. He found her in the bedroom, her fingers pulling back the side of the heavy drape to look outside.

           “Step away from there,” Jorah said, a bit harsher than he had intended.

           Daenerys started, practically jumping back from where she was, the curtain falling back into place. It appeared to him that she had been lost in her thoughts, her eyes blinking at him in an attempt to refocus. He stopped beside her, his index finger opening the drape just enough so he could peer through the rain-splattered window to the buildings adjacent and the bustling street below, his eyes darting this way and that, searching but finding nothing amiss.

           “Do you think someone’s out there,” she asked, her eyes and voice hinting at the growing worry within her.

           “No,” he responded. His tone and demeanor exuded calm and she relaxed. She had barely a moment to study his profile in the strip of yellowish light shining in from outside before she found him staring at her, his blue iris appearing almost green. “I suppose I’m being overly cautious.”

           A small smile emerged. “I had missed that.”

           Her fingers began to toy with the end of her braid again, a nervous habit Jorah remembered from his time with her. It was not something she did when it was an external threat that had her anxious, no; this was born of his proximity to her and likely the lingering emotions from a few moments ago.

           “You missed me following you around like a shadow?”

           “Better a shadow than a prison warden,” she snorted derisively. She noticed his confusion, “Gregor never let me leave the house. His presence was oppressive. He turned that place into a gilded cage.” Her arms wrapped around herself, “Not like it was ever a home.” She stared back at the window, at nothing, wetness starting to gather in the corner of her eyes, “Except when you were there. That was the only time it ever felt like it was.”

           “Daenerys--”

           She swept past him, but not before he saw her bottom lip begin to quiver, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I never should have sent you away.”

           He blinked, the gravity of her whispered words throwing him for a loop. But her assertion was wrong, “No, Daenerys,” she stopped, “You did the right thing sending me away.”

           “ _What?_ ” She rounded on him, “How can you say that!?”

           “I betrayed you, broke your trust in me. That was a crime that could not go unpunished.”

           “If I had never sent you away, none of this would have happened.”

           “You don’t know that.”

           “I don’t?” She scoffed, anger flashing in her eyes, “You mean to tell me that if those men had come for me, you would have let them kidnap me!?”

           “No,” he answered vehemently, closing some of the distance between them, “I would _never_ have let anything happen to you.”

           “What if you had never found me,” she spat, her finger jabbing him in the chest, “What if you-”

           “Don’t, Daenerys. Don’t play the ‘ _what if_ ’ game. It will consume you. I know that all too well.”

           He made to walk away from her, but she grabbed his forearm in her small, yet strong, grip, “Don’t walk away from me, Jorah.” She spun him until he faced her. The forcefulness with which she had just addressed him crumbled the instant she met his eyes. She saw such pain, such guilt and sadness there and she couldn’t hold back any longer. It all became so startlingly clear: he was hurting emotionally too. The weight of his absence, the sharp ache in her chest that had never truly disappeared came back in a tortured sob, “Did you ever even think about me? Did you miss me at all?”

           “Gods, Daenerys,” he breathed, his voice starting to break. Jorah took a chance, his hands coming up to cradle her face. She didn’t flinch or step back; instead, she leaned into his touch, her tears falling in earnest. He couldn’t contain his emotions any longer and he opened the floodgates of his heart, “I thought of you every single day and I missed you more than you will ever know.”

            Her eyes slipped shut and her body wracked with another sob before she threw her arms around his torso and fell against him. He gathered her close, never wanting to be parted from her ever again. He felt wetness on his own cheeks and he pressed his lips to the crown of her head. Oh, how he had missed holding her in his arms: the feel of her, the smell of her, _everything_ , only now it was no longer a dream. Even though a part of the chasm between them had been bridged, he still had not apologized for what he had done. That was the next step, but he put it off just a bit longer, wanting to linger in her embrace.

            And they did just that, unwilling to part after their time away from each other and everything they had been through, together and alone. Being in his arms had been her whispered wish every night; _hold me, Jorah, just one last time_. She wanted to melt into him, become consumed by his warmth and strength, to lose herself in him. His embrace still had the same effect it always had; he was like a sponge, absorbing all of her negative thoughts and feelings only to replace them with a sense of tranquility, filling her mind with peace and her soul with his immeasurable love. The tears that fell now were ones of joy and contentment, Jorah was with her once more and she was never going to let him go ever again.

            At long last, she tilted her head back to gaze up at him. She had nearly forgotten how tall he really was, the top of her head barely reached his bearded chin. But when he met her eyes, all further thought fled from her mind at the gentle love shining back at her, at the appearance of that smile he always gave only to her. “Come to bed with me tonight, Jorah.”

            He blinked in surprise. “Daenerys, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—”

            “I don’t mean for that.” She blushed, “Those couches you’ve been sleeping on can’t be all that comfortable.”

            He couldn’t argue with that, but his agreement was hesitant. “All right.”

            Once they were ready for bed, Jorah climbed in first, then she joined him. Showing no uncertainty, she fitted to his side as if she had never left, snuggling close. _Well then._ Jorah maintained a more cautious approach, his arm encircling her shoulders, the other lying on the bed at his side. Relaxation soon took hold, his muscles unwinding seemingly all at once. He remembered how easy it had been to fall asleep with her next to him. His body gave itself over to sleep without a fight, and just as before, his nightmares did not visit him. For the first time in a long time, they both slept heavily, the sleep of two people who were exactly where they were meant to be.


	30. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys deal with their bottled up emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mild angst, feels

Jorah woke up slowly, his eyes adjusting to the soft light that had managed to sneak in at the thin borders of the dark shades. He knew it was early yet, his internal clock was never wrong. He had not felt this rested in some time, his body completely relaxed and pain-free. Well, not entirely, a dull ache centered in his right shoulder, a warm weight resting there. A glint of silver caught his eye and he smiled, his fingers coming up to delicately brush away the hairs that had managed to escape her braid. She stirred, but didn’t awaken, her hold on him tightening for a brief instant then going lax again. _Gods, she’s beautiful._ In sleep, her features looked so calm. So at peace. The times that they had fallen asleep together, she had always rested easy, her nightmares chased away by his presence. Sometime in the night, she had thrown an arm and a leg over his body, fitting herself to him like his missing puzzle piece. He remembered how it felt to hold her with no barriers between them, the suppleness of her gentle curves, her head pillowed on his chest, the soft exhales of her warm breath heating his skin. That part was regrettably missing, his shirt blocking the brush of air, but not the _feel_ of the warmth. If he had his way, they wouldn’t get out of bed today. He closed his eyes, wanting to savor the moment, his arm encircling her so she was surrounded by him.

That movement appeared to be too much and he felt her move, her face nuzzling lazily into his shoulder. As if realizing the position of her body in relation to his, she stilled and he could practically hear her mind debating what to do. Then she was looking at him, all traces of sleep long gone. She blinked several times before an amazing thing happened; she smiled at him, one that made her eyes sparkle. Neither one said anything for some time, merely exchanging silent words with meaningful glances. She could communicate so much to him that way, a quirk of her lips, an arched eyebrow, a slow blink of her eyes. Apparently, she seemed to want the same thing he did and she lay her head back down on his chest, a long sigh of contentment leaving her.

“What did my father offer you to keep you reporting on me,” she asked after a long while had passed.

Jorah had figured this conversation was coming, he had just hoped for more time. Guilt welled in his chest, “Home.”

She lifted her head, “Home?”

“My family’s estate in Northern Scotland, on Bear Island, the one I had lost years ago. He offered me more than enough money to buy it back.”

“And you turned him down?”

“Yes, without hesitation.”

“You gave up your home for me.” She seemed surprised, though Jorah wasn’t sure why she should be. Surely, she had to know just how deeply he felt for her, how _she_ had become his home. Tears welled in her eyes, “Why?”

Now that was the real question and there were many explanations he could give her. Guilt, his nagging conscience, his moral compass. But there was really only one reason and he held nothing back. It wasn’t the time for it. “ _You_ became my home.”

Her breath came in a shudder, her bottom lip starting to tremble. She searched his eyes, and what she was looking for, Jorah wasn’t sure. But she must have found it, her whispered response setting off a cascade of emotions in his chest, “You became my home too.”

A buzz from the other room shattered the moment and their eyes met, questioning.

“It’s only the second day,” she stage-whispered and Jorah nodded, brow crinkled.

He held up his hand in a gesture of _stay here_ , then slipped from the bed, silently making his way to the front door. He pressed the intercom button and said the code statement, awaiting the reply. The tension dropped from his shoulders with the expected answer and he waved her over.

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching, then two sharp raps. Jorah opened the door to a seemingly familiar face. “Robb.”

“Hey Jorah.”

The two men shook hands and he stepped aside to let the younger man in. Shorter than Jorah, but just as leanly muscled and possessing a similarly styled beard, Robb exuded an air of confidence with his easy, winning smile. There was an obvious rapport between the two of them and Daenerys assumed they probably worked together.

“Daenerys, this is Robb Stark, our _King_ of Northern Irish intelligence.”

“Jaysus, you all are still on about that?” He rolled his eyes, but chuckled good-naturedly. There it was again, the Irish lilt to his accent. She thought she had heard it before, but wasn’t sure. “Nice to meet you, Miss,” he said with a small nod her way.

_So polite_. “Nice to meet you too.”

“So what brings you here? I thought you were in Belfast undercover.”

“No, I was called back.” Robb rubbed at the back of his neck, “Got a bit too close to my contact.”

_Ah, Talisa._ “I see,” Jorah said, his smile knowing.

“Enough about that.” He waved his hand, “On to the reason why I’m here. You’re clear.”

“What,” Jorah and Daenerys said in unison.

“Aye, Barristan’s team has been hard at work in his absence, checking communication intercepts and flight manifests. They’ve seen nothing amiss, so you’ve been deemed free to go.”

They looked at one another, clearly relieved at the good news.

“I’ll just let you collect what belongings you have, then I’ll drive you to whatever destinations you want.”

Jorah immediately noticed the plural usage of that word. Trepidation pooled in his stomach, the thought of being parted from Daenerys making his gut tie up in knots. Robb appeared otherwise preoccupied with his mobile, clearly giving them some privacy. Jorah turned to find Daenerys had gone back to the bedroom and he followed after. But she wasn’t packing up her clothes; she was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at her hands fidgeting in her lap.

She seemed to notice his arrival, “I have nowhere to go.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I can’t go back to the house; it’s probably been labeled a crime scene. And I can’t go to Missandei’s; I wouldn’t want to risk anything happening to her.”

“Stay with me.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. But they were the truth, he wanted, no _needed_ , her close. The mere suggestion of being separated from her again was too much.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He crouched in front of her, “I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe. But, honestly…,” and he took her hand to finish his statement, “I don’t want to be away from you.”

That was what she wanted to hear. “All right,” she agreed, before quickly adding, “If you’re sure. I don’t want to be a hindrance or a nuisance.”

Jorah smiled, his hand giving hers a tender squeeze, “You could never be either of those things. Certainly not to me. I’m sure, Daenerys.”

She offered him a quick smile, then stood with him to collect what meager belongings they had. Her jeans, dirty at the knees and splattered with a few drops of blood, _her blood_ , she paled at the memory, but recovered with a deep breath, were the first in the bag. Jorah watched her curiously, _why would she want to keep those_. He had chucked his filthy, bloody clothes in the bin the night they had arrived at the first safe house. But he was sure she had her reasons, so he didn’t say anything. With a quick cleanup and final sweep, they were on their way to the car. The cool early morning air bit at her cheeks and she wished she had a coat to ward off the chill. Seeing as how they were forbidden from leaving their hideaways, they hadn’t needed one. Jorah noticed her hug herself and he shrugged out of his hoodie, handing it to her.

“Jorah, you’re gonna get cold.”

“I’ll be fine. You keep warm.” She hesitated, then sighed in resignation and pulled it on. _Stubborn man_.

***

The drive took longer than it probably should have, Robb taking a convoluted route, constantly checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one was following. They passed from the city into small neighborhoods, the streets far less crowded. He steered the car at long last down a quiet, tree-lined street, the houses here not in a long row, but rather paired up with space between the duos. She loved it already and she hadn’t even seen where he lived yet. Robb stopped in front of an older style two-story brick building, the drive empty. A small patch of over-grown grass and a few flowering plants adorned the front garden, although the blooms looked wilted from an absence of care. That was when she realized just how long they had been away, moving from one secret location to another. _14 days_ , she thought, but the events that had brought them back together still seemed fresh in some ways.

She was brought from her thoughts by the opening of the door, Robb standing at its side, patiently waiting. Exiting with a nod and murmured ‘ _thank you’_ , she stood at the kerb, taking in her new surroundings. Birds chirped intermittently in the trees, but other than that, all she heard was a still quiet. Not an eerie one, she had heard that before. No, this was reassuring, brimming with hope and the birth of a new beginning for her. _For them_ , she corrected herself. She took a long breath of the cool air, clean and crisp, and heard Jorah come to a stop beside her. She could feel him watching her, watching to see what her reaction would be. He shouldn’t have worried for she looked up and gave him a heart-stopping grin then took his hand, ready to see the inside.

After exchanging their goodbyes and Robb letting Jorah know that his car would be delivered sometime later in the day, Jorah dug his keys out of his pocket and opened the door, letting her go in first. It was dark deeper within, the shades drawn over the windows, the light from the small foyer fading the further in she walked. She searched the wall beside her for the light switch, her fingers running over the cold, smooth wood paneling. Their hands collided and he let out a chuckle, “It’s over here.”

Then he was guiding her hand under the warm shelter of his, the deep rumble of his whisper affecting her in a way she hadn’t felt in so long. Unbidden, the memory of how she had shyly guided his hand once before flooded her, in search of something wholly different together. She closed her eyes tight, cursing inwardly at how shallow her breath sounded leaving her lips. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ Jorah had noticed, he no doubt did. He never missed a thing. But while he said nothing once her eyes had finally opened and met his, his gaze had taken on a warmer note and she felt it suffuse her, filling almost all of her empty spaces.

“What do you think,” he asked tentatively. She noticed how he struggled to tear his eyes from hers to look out at his living space.

She looked out at the now illuminated interior. And instantly fell in love with the place. Oddly, it was just how she pictured it would look. Lived in, comfortable, cozy. A well-worn leather sofa and two armchairs bordered a glass coffee table, all facing a fireplace. The walls were the same dark wood from the foyer, but the deep rich color didn’t make the room feel small. Off to the side, a TV was mounted onto the wall. Stepping further in and to her left, she noticed with a gasp the wall lined with rows and rows of books, a reader’s paradise complete with comfy chair, all tucked under a rather modern staircase composed of wood and glass, its silver metal banister gleaming in the light. It led up to a loft bedroom, and while that wasn’t the original design, she found it suited him and the place perfectly. To her right was a tidy kitchen and round wooden table with four chairs, all of which had seen better days.

“I love it,” she said, her assessment making him grin.

“Follow me.” He walked toward a short hallway just off the foyer. He stopped in front of the lone door and opened it, revealing a small guest bedroom. Spartanly furnished with a twin bed and simple wooden nightstand, the room appeared to also be a temporary storage place. Cardboard boxes were stacked under the window, a few labeled ‘donation’.

“Pardon the mess,” Jorah said sheepishly, “But this room is yours.” She felt a flash of disappointment, she wasn’t sure at what, but then her stomach picked the perfect time to growl. “Let’s get you fed.”

He led her back to the kitchen. He busied himself searching the cupboards while she put the kettle on, moving about the space as if she’d been living there for months. Warmth filled his chest at the realization that she was likely going to be there for some time. He had missed just being around her, but he wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about the possibility of them being together again.

“Chicken noodle,” he held up one can, “or minestrone?”

“Chicken noodle.”

“Sorry for the lack of choices,” he said, retrieving a pot from the cupboard, “I haven’t done much shopping.”

“It’s ok, we’ll go to the market tomorrow or something.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that their eyes met. And she could tell he thought it was very domestic too. They both let out a nervous laugh before going back to preparing lunch. They worked in companionable silence, a smooth synchronized dance, as if they had lived together for a long time. And they had, just not in _his_ home.

They ate and talked, keeping the conversation on topics that were safe. He asked about art, she about his large book collection. But eventually, they both knew they’d have to address the elephant in the room.

And it came after they’d cleared their bowls. She carried her teacup into the sitting room and that’s when she saw it. Above the hearth, it hung, framed in rich mahogany. Her drawing, the one she had hoped he wouldn’t find, but had and asked to keep. It held a place of honor in his house, prominently displayed for anyone who entered to see. Her vision blurred, emotions catching in her throat. Everything he had said was true, he loved her, had never stopped thinking about her and truly did miss her. It was not that she had doubted his words, but seeing this brought everything into stunning clarity.

“You kept it,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

He approached her slowly, their eyes locked. “Of course I did,” he uttered softly, “I could never have parted with it willingly.”

“What do you call it?”

“Isn’t that up to the artist to decide,” He smiled before he continued, “In my mind, it has always been _The Protector_.”

“That’s perfect,” her voice quavering.

He noticed the shimmering wetness welling in the corners of her eyes.

“Daenerys, I am so sorry for what I’ve done, for how deeply I hurt you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He had rehearsed his apology over and over in his head so many times, but he had to go and ruin it with something half-cocked. Nevertheless, it appeared that she didn’t seem to mind its simplicity, her eyes looking right into his and seeing the sincerity there. That seemed to be far more important to her than something rambling.

“You tried to tell me that when I told you I never wanted to see you again.” She looked away, “But I didn’t listen to you.”

“I’d betrayed your trust. I didn’t expect you to listen to me.”

She met his eyes again, “You did, but cutting you off…I should have let you explain, let you apologize.”

“Emotions were too raw, it wasn’t a good time.”

“If I had betrayed you, would you have forgiven me?”

That caught him off guard, but he knew his answer instantly. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“People make bad decisions, make mistakes. If their apology is sincere, then they deserve a second chance.”

“Your apology just was.” Guilt still swam in his eyes, “If I had truly meant nothing to you and all you had cared about was the money, then you would have kept it and never looked back.”

“How do you know about that?”

“My father told me. You gave it all back. Said it was ‘blood money’ and that you wanted no part of it. You came back for me, risked your life. Not because of money, but because of your promise to always protect me. Because of love.” A tear slid down her cheek and Jorah was about to brush it away with his thumb when his mobile rang. He sighed in irritation and fished the device from his pocket.

 “Yes,” he answered; a bit sharper than he intended. He listened mostly and only said a few words here and there before he hung up. He met her expectant gaze, “That was the hospital. Barristan’s been moved to an aftercare facility for physical therapy. He’s become quite the nuisance though, asking to be sent home straight away so he can get back to work.”

“I must remember to thank him. He didn’t have to risk his life for me like that.”

“I tried to tell him I didn’t need his help, but to be honest, I think he misses the excitement of being out in the field.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly, rushing off to dig through their bag of clothing.

  It was then that Jorah realized why she had kept her jeans, watching her reach into the front pocket to retrieve something. She came back to him and took his hand, placing something onto his palm, “My father gave it to me just before he…,” she took a deep breath, “before he died.”

Jorah eyed it curiously, “A necklace?”

She shook her head and picked up the locket, “My father told me this was important,” she said, pressing an almost unnoticeable button on the back of it to reveal its true identity: a flash drive. “I think it has something to do with the information he was going to give to your friend.”

“I must say, that’s clever of him. Concealing precious data in something totally innocuous and giving it to the one person they wouldn’t suspect.”

“That almost didn’t work,” she responded cryptically, letting the locket fall back onto his palm, “Varys ripped it from my neck, along with the necklace you gave me. He asked if it was from you. I told him it was and then he reluctantly gave it back.”

Jorah grinned. “That was quick thinking on your part. Well done.”

“Like I’ve said before, I learned from the best,” she replied with a wink.

But what she said about what Varys had done was not lost on him. “He tore those necklaces from you?”

She nodded with sad eyes, noticing the clenching of his jaw. “He threw the other aside. I’ll never get it back.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His hand reached into his own pocket to pull out her other necklace.

“How did you get this,” she asked, clearly surprised.

“Barristan and I went to your house looking for you, but they had already kidnapped you.”

“How did you know to go to King’s Landing?”

“Barristan saw the picture on the wall, recognized Varys. Apparently, he had been on their radar for some time.” She took the necklace from his hand, examining the broken clasp. “We’ll take it to get it fixed.”

Daenerys gave it back to him and Jorah laid it on the mantle beneath her painting. She looked down at her baggy, mismatched clothes. They hadn’t been all that warm to start with and she wondered if he had something else she could wear for the time being. “Can I borrow something warmer to wear?”

“Of course. Come with me.”

He led her up the stairs to his bedroom, this space fitting his personality perfectly. The same dark wood paneling as downstairs, a squat bookcase crammed with books along one wall, a closet adjacent to what appeared to be the entrance to the bathroom. Everything was neat and tidy, but not to the point that she was afraid to touch anything. The king-sized bed, made in linens of black and dark green, was the centerpiece of the room, a lamp on a simple wooden nightstand piled with paperbacks stood beside it. It all looked incredibly comfortable and homey, the bed warm and inviting, she could see herself curled up in Jorah’s arms beneath the thick duvet. Jorah went over to a chest of drawers, opening the first one to get her a shirt, then another to get a pair of sweatpants. He held out the clothes to her, “Bathroom’s just through there.”

While she went off to change, Jorah sat on the bed and waited. He had sent so many nights lying awake in that very bed formulating the perfect apology. He still felt like what he had said wasn’t enough. Perhaps in the days to come, he would find ways to both show and tell her just how sorry he truly was. The creak of floorboards drew his attention and he found her standing just outside the door, her head subtly tilted, merely watching him.

“You hold on to your guilt more than anyone I’ve ever met.” He looked away, then down at his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Jorah felt the bed dip slightly beside him.

“I had so many opportunities, so many times when we were alone and I didn’t tell you.” His eyes closed briefly and he sighed.

“You didn’t know me when you agreed to do it.” She rested her hand on his, then looked up to find him staring at her. “But once you did, you stopped. And I know why.”

_You cared about me._ She didn’t need to say it because he could see it in her eyes and it was the truth. The first phone call hadn’t really been all that easy to make either. The whole idea of a father wanting to know his daughter’s every move was seriously suspicious. But it wasn’t just that, he had seen the person she really was: intelligent and gentle-hearted despite her circumstances.

“I trusted you with my life and you never failed me.” She turned and lifted her hand to his jaw, turning his face so she could see it fully, “Then I trusted you with my heart.”

“And I broke it.”

“Yes,” she answered softly and he winced, “But you’ll mend it again. Love is about forgiveness. You gave me the sincerest apology I’ve ever heard and I saw it was true and real in your eyes. But you know what, your actions spoke much louder than that.”

“Will you ever trust me with your heart again?”

He asked it so quietly, so hesitantly, it was as if he was unsure whether she’d say yes or not. But he shouldn’t have worried, the tenderest smile he’d ever seen graced her lips and crinkled the corners of her eyes, “Yes, someday.”

***

Days flowed into weeks, then became months, and with the passage of time, Daenerys’ psyche slowly healed from her ordeal. Almost completely. There were still times when she regressed. She feared the dark now, which she never really had in the past. When they had tried early on in that time to go to a shopping centre for some clothes, he quickly discovered she wasn’t quite ready. The crowded space was too much, the claustrophobia of all those bodies had her panicking. But Jorah always seemed to know how to calm her, no matter when or where the panic attacks happened. The warmth of his large hand enclosing hers, or sometimes, when they were particularly bad, the comforting strength of his embrace, his voice whispering that she was all right, that she was safe, and that he was there, slowed her heart and regulated her breathing.

They spent most of their time in the house, which was fine by him. He had contacted his job and they had given him some declassified files to work on from home in the meantime. And while he did, Daenerys would read something from his stocked library, curled up in his comfy chair, a blanket over her legs. Or sometimes she’d draw in the sketchbook Jorah had purchased for her, the faint scratching of charcoal on paper a comforting sound to him. And apparently to Daenerys too. She would lose herself for hours, staring out the window into his garden. They really only left to go to the nearby market during off-peak hours or the neighborhood park when the weather permitted. They would sit and watch people walking by, the children at their games, or just look at the scenery. Sometimes they’d talk, well, she would and he’d listen. Occasionally, the conversation would turn to serious topics, but she mostly kept it light. Some nights, they’d watch TV, but he found they couldn’t watch movies or shows where someone was kidnapped, so Jorah kept a vigilant eye on the evening’s programing schedule so as to prevent any unpleasant memories from resurfacing.

One afternoon, he dug an old heavy bag out from the shed and set it up on the concrete deck of his small back garden. He ordered a pair of gloves for the both of them and they started the exercise he had done with her all those months ago. It helped her immensely, a physical activity to release the bottled-up emotional strain. He could read her moods so well now and sometimes he knew she needed to go out there without him. And she would return, sweaty and slightly winded, but smiling gratefully at him, her eyes a bit blood shot, her cheeks reddened not just from exertion.

It was one evening while they were making dinner that their relationship turned a corner. They’d decided on chicken marsala, and while Jorah had heard of it, he’d never eaten or made it before. So, she found a recipe online and they purchased the ingredients. While Jorah cleaned, stemmed and halved the crimini mushrooms, Daenerys washed and cut the small red potatoes that would be their side dish. The familiar thunk of knife against wooden cutting board stopped and Jorah looked over to find Daenerys staring at him, a curiously fond look in her eyes.

“Daenerys?”

“I love you, Jorah.”

His own knife fell from his hand to clatter on the counter, his breath catching in his chest. Her voice was soft, but he didn’t doubt the sincerity of her words. Before he could fully react, before his mind could catch up with what his ears had so longed to hear again, she was kissing him. A brief instant of hesitation, then he was melting into her, his arms gathering her close and lifting her just a bit so she didn’t have to stand on tiptoe, the kiss so sweet and tender he very nearly cried. And when it ended, only their lips parted, their foreheads still touching. _Will you ever trust me with your heart again, he’d asked. Yes, someday, she’d answered._

“I love you, Daenerys.”


	31. To Rediscover You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Daenerys rediscover the physical side of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note...the beginning of this chapter is a continuation of the last one.
> 
> Chapter warnings: mild swearing, erotica

Daenerys awoke to a soft snore. Smiling, she turned over as gently as possible and found Jorah on his back, an arm tucked up under his pillow, lips slightly parted. With his hair sticking up at odd angles and a glimmer of drool at the corner of his mouth, he was absolutely adorable. He looked almost boyish in his slumber and she wondered if this was how he had looked as a younger man. She had seen his Army photo in the file on her father’s desk and the only discernable differences were his facial hair and the subtle lines at the corners of eyes.

               As she lay there studying him, she remembered the night before. How she’d felt the sensation in her chest before she’d uttered the words, so certain now that she loved him in spite of everything. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she always knew she’d love him again, but it had been an oddly simple moment that drove it home for her. Standing there in his small kitchen, watching his deft hand cut vegetables, she had never been surer of something in her entire life. His contrition had been shown to her a thousand times over in the past few months and she felt a peace within her that she had never experienced in all her years living at home. No sense of tension, no feeling that another shoe was about to drop. Calm, safe and loved. She wanted _this_ life with _him_ , to share his space, and wake up warm and whole. The conversation that followed their kiss was reminiscent of the one they’d shared at the last safehouse and it nearly made her giggle now. Not because it was comical, but because the look on his face had been priceless.

               _“I want to share your bed tonight, Jorah.”_

_He pulled back suddenly, “Daenerys, I don’t think-”_

_She laughed softly, “Not for that.” She rested her hand against his cheek, “Not yet anyway.” His eyes widened further, blinking at her. “I sleep better when I’m with you.”_

_His expression shifted into a soft smile, “So do I.”_

_“You presumed I meant something else,” her left eyebrow arched delicately, but her voice teasing._

_“No, well, I-I wasn’t sure you’d want to go back to the way things were.” Her right eyebrow joined the other and Jorah backpedaled, clearly rattled, “No-I mean-sleeping in the same bed, not…” He let the thought hang there as he rubbed at the back of his neck._

_“I know what you meant, Jorah,” she said simply, smiling._

               A flustered Jorah was a very attractive Jorah. He shifted beside her, drawing her from her thoughts. He blinked slowly, his gaze focusing.

               “Good morning, love,” he said sleepily, a contented smile starting to form.

               She blinked at him, her own smile growing. “You called me ‘love’.”

               All traces of sleep left his face, “I’m sorry, I-”

               “Don’t be.” Her fingers brushed over his cheek. “I missed you calling me that… _my bear_.”

               Now it was Jorah’s turn to grin. “I’d missed _you_ calling me that.”

               “You’re cute when you snore,” she noted, resting her chin on his chest.

               “I highly doubt that.”     

               Jorah stretched, suppressing a groan. His shoulder had never been quite the same after the gunshot, the muscles ached and his range of motion was slightly limited. But it didn’t matter, the pain a reminder of what he had gained. And it was so very worth it. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was later than he usually slept, but he felt he had earned the luxury of sleeping in. _Besides_ , he thought, _when was the last time I woke up to Daenerys in my bed?_

She drew closer to him, “Would it be possible for us to go shopping today? As much as I love wearing your clothes sometimes, I would like to get some more of my own.”

               “We can, on one condition.”

               “Which is?”

               “We do our shopping somewhere other than Harrod’s. I don’t think my bank account could handle it.”

               She giggled. “Deal. I only shopped there because my father told me to.” A sadness came over her, “You know, I would have traded all of his wealth for just a bit of his time and love. The real tragedy of it all is that he wouldn’t have changed, even if I had asked him to. Even at the end, he was cruel.”

               “What do you mean?” They hadn’t talked much about that fateful day.

               “He said some horrible things about you and me. How you had manipulated me to get what you wanted and how I was stupid enough to fall prey to you.”

               Jorah sighed. “He accused me of the same thing.”

               Daenerys grew quiet, then asked, “Do you ever wish we had met under different circumstances?”

               He had. Once. In a dream. “I did.” His fingers tucked her sleep mussed hair behind her ear, “How it might have been had I bumped into you on the street, to find myself entranced at first by your beauty, only to discover your gentle heart and sharp wit. Hoping beyond hope that you’d accept my offer to take you to dinner and find myself grinning like a fool when you readily agreed. To walk hand in hand with you, making you laugh, and at the end of the night, unwilling to part from you, share our first kiss and feel like an infatuated teenager again.”

               Tears stung her eyes and she sniffled, “You really are a romantic at heart.”

               “Shh, don’t tell anyone or my tough bloke image is ruined.”

               They shared a laugh, but she noticed that his eyes lingered on her lips. Last night had been the first time in so long since they’d kissed and she desperately wanted to do it again. So she did, closing the distance and sealing their lips. It started chaste, but she wanted more. Her tongue swept against his bottom lip in greeting and he opened his mouth to her without hesitation, deepening their kiss. Soft moans meddled, the sound of his, husky and low in his throat, slipped into her bloodstream like a drug, her racing heart sending it through her body to pool heavily between her legs. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the feel of his strong form, his masculine scent, the wordless vulnerability he showed only her. It married with the memories of their passion in her mind and she found herself drawing him onto her, her leg curling around him. Through the haze, she felt a sudden resistance in the kiss, in the subtle stiffening of his body.

She pulled back to look at him, “Jorah?” He was trying to catch his breath, a war between desire and reluctance being waged in his eyes, “What is it?”

“Are you sure?”

_Sure?_ She was confused. Hadn’t her kiss made it _very_ clear? His body certainly seemed like it was _up_ for it, but maybe he wasn’t emotionally ready yet. “You don’t want to.” It was a statement and a question.

“Gods help me, I do. I…I don’t want to rush you.”

“Rush me?” She smiled at that. _Oh, my sweet bear._ “You weren’t rushing me. I believe _I_ was the one who started the whole thing.”

That got him half-smiling. “You did at that.”

She kissed him again, but this time, it was just a peck on the lips. Because she knew if it was a slow, lingering one they wouldn’t get out of bed that day. “Would you like some breakfast? I’m kinda hungry.”

He moved to sit next to her. “Sure, I think I’ll grab a shower first.”

“Okay, I’ll go get it started.”

               She watched him until he disappeared behind the bathroom door, then went downstairs to get the tea and porridge going. He joined her in the kitchen a short while later and helped her. Putting the tea bags in to steep, she leaned back against the counter to watch Jorah get bowls and utensils. Having a morning like this had seemed impossible to her long ago, the simple domesticity something she hadn’t realized she longed for until she started living with him. Plating her food, he handed it to her and then dished out his own while she poured them each a mug of tea.

When they were both finished and the plates cleared, she braided her hair and slipped on one of his hooded sweatshirts before leaving. They walked the short distance to the Underground station, hands clasped between them. Shopping had never been one of Jorah’s favorite things, especially with his ex-wife, who would take an entire day, trying on outfit after outfit, only to come away unbearably upset and empty-handed. Daenerys was the exact opposite; at least she was now as she didn’t have her friend with her to distract her. She knew where she wanted to go and what she needed; picking articles of clothes that she knew would fit right off the rack. Although, Jorah mused as he watched her debating which color shirt she liked more, he probably would have been all right with her taking her time. He leaned down and whispered against her ear, “You look beautiful in red.”

               She threw him a shy smile and he arched an eyebrow when she took both and handed them to him along with the rest of her selections. “I’m getting the green one too. It reminds me of you.”

               Chuckling, they walked to the register and paid. On their way out, he stopped at the jeweler's. Daenerys was confused at first until he handed her broken necklace to the proprietor and asked for it to be repaired. While they waited, she browsed the cases with him, both of them making faces at the ostentatious diamond rings. Somehow, he had just known she wouldn’t be that kind of woman, one who needed a giant rock on her finger to show off to everyone. Not like she didn’t deserve it, no, it was more that something understated yet beautiful would suit her better.

               Once it was ready, he stood behind her and eased her braid over one shoulder so he could secure the clasp. Turning to face him, his finger traced the delicate chain and stopped over the small charm. Only they knew that it was a symbol of his love and vow of protection. Once outside the shop, their eyes met and Jorah couldn’t resist the urge to kiss her any longer. Cupping her cheek with his hand, he leaned in and did just that, chaste, slow and sweet, totally oblivious to the fact they were on a bustling sidewalk. It was everything he had remembered about their last kiss and so much more.

               With one final stop at the grocer’s, they boarded the Underground and headed back to his house. Once home, he put their purchased food in the refrigerator, lit a fire, and spent the rest of the day watching movies.

***

               One evening later that week, while they were waiting for a pizza to be delivered, Daenerys looked up to find Jorah watching her instead of the TV. The flickering glow from the screen was their only light and she found it oddly romantic. Her hand slid to his thigh and the playfulness in her eyes shifted.

               He noticed instantly, a hint of caution in his low voice, “Daenerys…”

               She silenced him with a kiss, then shh’d him, “I know what I need.”

               The blanket fell from her shoulders as she pushed him back onto the cushions, her knees on either side of his waist, her lips crashing against his own. With a soft growl, he yielded to her, his hands coming to rest on her waist.

               “Touch me,” she murmured passionately against his lips.

               Unwilling to deny her, his hands caressed the length of her back, one continuing on to slip into the hair that fell around them. She rocked against him intimately, her sounds of pleasure shot straight to his groin and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. His body responded to her even as his rational mind told him that he should make sure she truly wanted this. The kiss grew in intensity, teeth nipping, tongues eagerly tasting. Her hand snaked under the hem of his shirt to run over his torso, his stomach dipping under her questing fingers on his hurriedly indrawn breath, her short nails scraped softly through the fur on his chest. His hand slid to her side, the palm of it following the outer curve of her breast, groaning when he discovered she wore no brassiere. With a soft tease of his thumb over her sensitive nipple, she arched and ground herself against him hard, seeking the perfect friction of his hardness between her legs.

               “Jorah,” she breathed hotly into his open mouth, her tongue darting out to flick over his bottom lip, “I need you.”

               “Oh love,” his mouth slipping from hers to bestow butterfly kisses along the column of her throat, “You are not alone in your desire.”

               Dropping her hands to his jeans, she fumbled a bit with the button before it finally popped free. Grasping the tab of the zipper, she pulled. The only thing now between her urgent touch and the silky skin of his hard cock was his boxer briefs. Easing her hand under the band, her fingers threaded through the springy hair at the base. He lifted his hips to meet her, but was rudely interrupted by the buzzing of his doorbell. Her head fell to his sternum, a loud groan of frustration issuing from her throat. He made a noise of his own, but it sounded more like a curse, “Bloody hells. The _one_ time you want them to be late; they _actually_ manage thirty minutes or less.”

               He was greeted with a snickering laugh, her head lifting to meet his eyes. She saw mirth in them despite his exasperation and the buzzer sounded again. She crawled back off him and he stood, buttoning his pants, and repositioning his prominent hardness to make it less noticeable. Grabbing his wallet on the way to the door, he whipped it open and paid the young man, taking the box in his hands, and closing the door with his foot. 

               Setting the box on the glass coffee table, he went to the kitchen to get plates and something for them to drink. On his way back, he stopped halfway, finding the box open, one piece missing. Her eyes were closed and she chewed the rather large bite missing from the slice, “I guess we won’t be needing these.”

               She giggled around her mouthful as he brandished the plates in one hand before putting them on the counter. He joined her on the couch, setting down two glasses of water before taking a piece of his own from the box. They ate in silence, enjoying the gooey cheesiness of the pizza and the quiet companionship. Once they had their fill, he put away the leftovers in the fridge and rejoined her on the couch.

               He flipped through the channels until they found something they could agree on. Drawing the blanket over them both, she cuddled against him. It was dark outside and the clouds that had hung heavy on the horizon earlier had finally rolled in, bringing with it quite a downpour. A shiver ran through her and he rose from the couch to build a fire in the hearth. He wasn’t as affected by the cold as she was; being in the Army had made him accustomed to all sorts of less than ideal conditions.

               After a while, she stretched, “I think I’ll take a shower.”

               “All right, I just washed some towels. I’ll bring you one.”

               He went to get one from the dryer and met her upstairs. He handed it to her and she took it with a small smile, closing the door over behind her. He had fully intended to go back downstairs, but stopped in his tracks when he noticed her undressing. The door had not completely shut; the narrow band of visibility gave him a perfect view of her. Jorah fought the urge to stare, wanting her to have her privacy, but when her panties pooled at her feet, he surrendered. The desire that had coursed through him earlier consumed him once more.

               Daenerys felt like she was being watched and she turned to find Jorah standing frozen outside the door. With unblinking eyes locked on his, she walked slowly to it and pulled it open. She could tell he was struggling to keep his gaze on her face, but the way his chest rose and fell was a clear indication of his arousal.

               “Do you want to join me?”

               “Honestly, love, a shower is the last thing on my mind,” he said huskily.

               Her head tilted back a bit as she stepped closer, her fingertips settling in the hollow of his throat, his pulse swift under her delicate touch, “Then what are you thinking about?”

               His response was to cradle her jaw in his warm hands and kiss her. Her lips parted in surprise, she had expected him to say something instead of acting on impulse. Jorah took that opportunity to sweep his tongue into her mouth, tasting her. Daenerys was now an active participant, the need she had voiced earlier flared anew within her and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She wanted him to take her to his bed and make her his in every sense of the word all over again. As if he was reading her mind, he turned and guided her until the backs of her thighs hit the mattress’s edge. He lifted her into his arms and instantly regretted it, groaning and grimacing at the sharp ache. Jorah let go and she fell unceremoniously onto the bed, his hand pressing against the old injury as he muttered an apology. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to find her staring at him with concern, “I’m all right, love.”

She didn’t seem convinced, so she rose to her knees, her hand drifting down to cup his hardness. “There are other ways that we can be intimate.”

               “No, love, not with how desperately I need you. After all that time apart and everything we have been through together, I want to make love to you the way you deserve. I want to rediscover you.”

Her body thrummed with yearning at his words. He pulled his shirt over his head and any further argument died on her lips. She explored his torso eagerly before leaning in to place a kiss to his new, still faintly red scar. With a warm smile, he watched her lay back on the bed, her silver hair fanning out over the dark sheets. She was a vision and he feared that if he moved too fast, she would disappear. Easing himself down, he gasped into her mouth at the hot press of her breasts and belly against his body. In his sleep, he had dreamt of her beneath him like this, but those paled in comparison to the real thing. Moving restlessly beneath him, he knew she wanted more. He grudgingly left her lips to worship her neck and the rise of her chest, purposefully avoiding her hard nipples. He mouthed the soft flesh around them, tasting her skin, nibbling gently here and there only to soothe the bites with a brush of his lips. He met her eyes and finally took one rosy peak into his mouth. A loud, shaky mewl greeted him, her hips bucking from the bed. His hand was busy with her other breast, unable to keep from touching her, satisfying the silent and not so silent appeals of her body. He listened to her impassioned breathing, waiting for the all too familiar hitch that followed something he did that made her desire spike. The rise of her hips, searching for the deliciously perfect friction that would carry her to her peak. The tiny pebbling of her flesh when he exhaled hot over her skin, a shiver of pleasure dancing down her spine and spreading through her sex, the warm wetness it brought like a river flowing into its delta.

Daenerys dug her heels into the bed, pushing against the heated weight of his body, anxious for more, “Jorah, please.”

“I am in no rush, love.” His words ghosting over her, gooseflesh tightening her skin once more.

Her groan of frustration gave way to a shuddering gasp, his teeth rasping over the prominence of her rib cage in his now slow downward journey to the place she needed him most. His lips brushed the soft fine hairs of her belly, nuzzling the gentle, womanly curve of it before dipping his tongue into her bellybutton. She giggled breathlessly and he met her eyes with an arched eyebrow and a broad boyish smile. He did it once more, wiggling it a bit harder. He was rewarded with a belly laugh, her body writhing for another reason now. He joined in her mirth for a moment, then nipped her hipbone playfully to bring her back to his previous intention. He bypassed her glistening center, and stood by the bed, drawing her foot to him, kissing his way from the bone of her ankle to the lithe muscle of her calf, which he bit it softly. Tracing his tongue in the hollow behind her knee, she wriggled her hips in impatience, her hands clutching the sheet beneath her. Almost to his goal, he kissed and teased a path to the juncture of her thighs. She spread her legs more in anticipation, but he smirked and shook his head, exhaling a hard puff of warm air over her slickness before repeating the same devotion to her other limb.

She was out of her mind with desire by the time he dropped to his knees by the bed. With amorous determination in his eyes, he buried his nose in her short soft curls and drew a deep breath of her feminine aroma, “Gods, love…how I’ve missed the scent of you.”

His rich voice sounded at the edge of his control and her walls pulsed.

“Please,” Daenerys begged, hoping that _finally_ he would give her what she needed.

With a subtle tilt of his head, his mouth slanted over her, his lips working in perfect harmony against her slick ones in the most intimate of kisses. His soft groans sent tiny vibrations through her sensitized swollen flesh, the resonance of them striking the perfect cord deep in her already fluttering sex.

Jorah had said he wanted to rediscover her, like an archeologist finding a forgotten treasure all over again, but heavens help her if he wasn’t already well acquainted. It was as if no time had passed from the last time he had done this for her. She didn’t see it as being done ‘to her’; the manner in which he set himself to this task spoke of veneration, an offering to a goddess. He pleasured her with care and an acute attention to minute detail. He _knew_ her, every nuance, each subtly.

Her fingers twisted in his hair, her skin prickling with heat, her voice needy and breathless. He already had her _soclose_ and he had not even touched her where she yearned for him to. He probed her gently, gathering the slippery evidence of her arousal for _him_ before, at long last, swirling his tongue over her aching clit.

“Jorah,” she keened wantonly, her body powerless to keep still.

With a rumble deep in his chest at the sound of his name falling so flawlessly from her lips, it made him eager to bestow upon her the bliss she was more than worthy of. The gentle rocking of her hips against his mouth let him know he was doing just what she wanted him to. Like a man starved for sustenance, he was greedy for her nectar. The slick of it clung to his lips and the whiskers on his chin, but it was nowhere near enough, he wanted to drown in her essence and be reborn in the shining glory of her ecstasy.

Her breathing grew deep, and in a tone of supplication, she whimpered, “Gods--don’t stop.”

Her legs shook against her will, every muscle in her being tight and screaming for release. Then she felt it, the stratospheric rise. It was inevitable now, flickering fire gathering into a singularity. His tongue coaxed the dizzying spiral tighter and tighter until every cell went supernova, ejecting her consciousness from her in a rush and arcing her back from the bed. She sobbed at the sensation, anchoring herself to him with a taut grip in his hair. She could have been speaking in tongues for all she knew, her voice sounded so foreign to her ears. His muffled moan cut through the haze as he gathered the trickle of her completion from her throbbing sex, easing her down from the height with slow, rolling licks. Her lungs burned and she swore she would never be able to breathe normally again nor would her heartbeat steadily either. Her fingers finally let go of their hold and a pleasant ache centered in the joints.

He stood and braced his hands on the bed by her waist. The sight of his lips and beard glistening with her brought forth a fresh burst of desire and she rose shakily to kiss him. The sweet-salty flavor of her blended with his own to create an exquisite piquant tang.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in places and she couldn’t help but laugh. Her hand covered her mouth, tears of joy stinging her eyes. He lifted his hand to smooth it down, but hers darted out to stop him, “Don’t you dare. You look so sexy like that.”

Jorah grinned at her, sweeping his thumb over his lip to gather her wetness before drawing it into his mouth. The time that passed between them was a continuum, a spatial quality with no definition. It seemed an eternity, but was only an instant. Then everything seemed to happen at hyper speed, her fingers working the fastening and zipper of his jeans, his joining to help. They laughed as they got in the way of one another, his assistance more of a hindrance. But she didn’t care; his impatience to be one with her made it all worth it. Grasping his garments, she pulled them down his legs, his cock bobbing free. Her mouth nearly at the level of his manhood, she closed the distance and drew her tongue over the glans, the slippery salty fluid beading at the slit teasing her taste buds, the flavor of him very pleasing to her palate.

“Daenerys, not like this. I’m already close,” his husky voice shaking with barely contained restraint.

She rose and looked into his eyes, “Lay down for me.”

Removing his jeans and boxer briefs and joining her on the bed, he barely had a chance to lie back before she was astride him. Then he was home, the swollen scalding heat of her stole his breath and he struggled to keep his gaze on her. She moved as if in slow motion, her body sinking down the rest of the way, her wide eyes slipping shut and her head tipped back, the ends of her hair tickling his thighs.

She breathed his name like a prayer, her measured deep breaths allowing her body to reacquaint itself with the thickness of him. The tips of her fingers brushed his trembling belly and she lifted her head to look at him. A radiant smile graced her face and she leaned forward to kiss him, but he met her halfway. First one hand, then the other cradled her jaw as he sat up completely. He looked into her eyes, his thumbs moving softly over the roundness of her cheeks, wordlessly communicating to her all of the things he felt for her. Memories like a flipbook flashed in his mind: the first smile she gave him, the first time he made her laugh, painting with her, when he drew her into his arms to calm her fear, their first kiss, the fearless way she saved his life, and the night they first made love. Wrapping his arms around her, he supported her while she curled her legs around him.

They rocked together in a deliberate, seamless give and take; he delighted in the soft tease of her breasts through the hair of his chest, her arms around his shoulders, her hair falling around them, a sensual shade to cocoon their loving gaze. For that is what this was, love in its purest form. The physical demonstration of her words: _to put you back together again, make you whole._ There was no him without her, she truly was his other half. His search was over and he felt it deep in the marrow of his bones.

This was no race, it was a journey. They had laughed, cried, bled and fought together; healing each other from the inside out, in ways large and small. Their breathing synchronized, her trembling fingers coming to rest over his left pectoral. She closed her eyes, feeling the pounding of his heart beneath her palm, the heat radiating from his skin into her, warming her to her core.

“Open your eyes, _Khaista_ ,” he whispered; brushing her hair behind her ears, his fingertips grazing the line of her neck until his hand came to rest between her breasts. He felt it, the faster rhythm of her heart beneath the softness of her skin. So warm, she was like fire made flesh, burning for him. Just as he burned for her. They were a closed circuit of love and desire, connected not just intimately, but also by their souls. Time slowed and the crest of their pleasure rose just as deliberately. He felt the subtle change in her first, _as it should be_ , the tiny, soft pulses of her sex around his length. Leaving his hand over her heart, the other slipped between them, her slickness coating his thumb as it slid over her swollen clit once, twice, and then, “Jorah.”

Her soft, breathless moan filled his ears, every part of her clutching at him, her eyelids fluttering at the waves of sweet pleasure rolling through her body. It wasn’t like the fierce strength her first orgasm had been. This was gentler, but no less satisfying. And the way Jorah held her gaze, the unguarded, warm affection she saw there, had tears welling fast. This was the passion she had always dreamed she’d have with a man, to feel her soul meld with another’s. When Jorah’s release left him in deep, pulsing throbs, he swore he saw heaven for a shining instant. And it was a joyful smile and laughing violet eyes. He felt utterly spent yet completely whole, his forehead resting against hers, the fading aftershocks of her peak rippling softly around him.

He could feel himself starting to soften, the slowing beat of their hearts bringing them back to the moment. She was locked tight around him, her hips wiggling against his to keep him connected to her for as long as possible. He saw a tear slip down her cheek and he leaned back to look at her, finding only joy shimmering in her eyes. She let out a breathless laugh before her lips met his in a lingering kiss.

“Let’s get under the covers,” he suggested, feeling her shiver slightly in his arms.

It took a bit of doing, but he managed to get them both covered up and cuddling again before Daenerys could get cold. She snuggled into him, her body fitted perfectly against his side. It wasn’t long before her breathing evened and she went slack in his arms. He brushed her hair aside so he could see her better, his eyes moving over her delicate features, committing them to memory. He didn’t need to; the recollection of her face would be there long after he had forgotten everyone else’s. She was with him again and warmth filled him at the thought that this was just the start of their life together. And it was on that marvelous note that he too slipped into sleep. 


	32. Turning the Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah savor the morning after, a phone call brings some difficult news, and a visit from Barristan reveals a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Fluff, a bit of angst, more fluff

Jorah was typically an early riser, but not that day. He couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, not with Daenerys nestled into his side like she was meant to be there. The beginnings of a slight ache in his shoulder wasn’t enough to extricate himself from the warm cocoon of bedsheets either. He wanted to stay like this with her for hours.

               He angled his head just enough so that he could see her face without waking her. She was beautiful, and simultaneously, extremely adorable. Wisps of silver hair clung to her cheek, a hint of drool residing in the corner of her parted lips. No lines marred the space between her eyebrows or forehead, she looked completely at peace. Which was precisely what Jorah felt in that moment. It was the same sensation in his chest every other time he had fallen asleep and awakened beside her. Along with it, he had an overwhelming feeling of love, an emotion so powerful he had never felt the like of it for another woman. Ever.

               The sheet had fallen away sometime in their slumber, the pale skin of her shoulder nearly lambent in the early morning light. The shades were half-drawn, guarding them against most of the sun’s growing intensity. Last night had been indescribable. He had dreamt of making love to her again, but what had happened in his bed was, for lack of a better word, _transcendent_. The love in her eyes, the feel of her heart beating beneath his palm in rhythm with his own. They were connected, not just in body, but soul too.

               They must have slept a short while afterward because Jorah woke to the feel of her hand gently coaxing him to hardness once more, a teasing desire swirling in her smiling violet eyes. Then he found himself on his back, staring up at his goddess silhouetted by the light spilling out from the bathroom, her hands braced firmly on his chest, her movements far more passionate and eager than before. His world had narrowed, everything fading away save for Daenerys and the sight, sound, and feel of her ecstasy. Their approach to lovemaking was slightly different, but it was complimentary too. Daenerys was fire and passion, Jorah loving and tender. Yet it was not set in stone…at times, he had a hunger for her that overwhelmed him and he would become insatiable for her. She had enjoyed that side of him immensely, even though she had only experienced it once. He simply preferred to make love to her, expressing everything he held in his heart through the slow rhythm of his body. They were two sides to the same coin. Their first time after so long without had been exactly the way they _both_ wanted it to be.

               A sleepy mumble drew him from his thoughts, Daenerys stirring but not waking. He couldn’t help the smile that broke across his face. _She talks in her sleep_. He tucked the newfound knowledge away for later and gently shifted his hand to rest on her bare upper thigh, his arm tightening ever so slightly around her shoulders. Her skin was always so warm, but she hated the cold. _That’s why she’s got me._ Jorah got comfortable, his eyes closing to rest, but not sleep.

               A while passed and her breathing shifted into wakefulness. Lifting her head, she blinked slowly, bringing him into focus. He was greeted then by a lazy smile, her hair tousled beautifully by sleep and their intimate activities.

               “Morning Jorah,” she mumbled, her hand rising to push her hair back.

               He intercepted it, linking their fingers to guide it down to his chest, “Don’t, you look beautiful like this.”

               A pink flush painted her cheeks, a shy smile gracing her lips. It was no lie or line he was feeding her, he meant it and she saw that sincerity in his eyes. It was in those calming blue depths that she saw much more than that. There was love and happiness there too. And judging by the way he was smiling at her, that soft, gentle smile he reserved only for her, he must have seen those emotions in her eyes too. Not to mention, he looked both handsome and adorable first thing in the morning. She realized not for the first time she could get very used to waking up beside Jorah every day.

               “You’d mentioned something about maybe going back to work today. Are you,” she asked, propping her head on her hand so she could see him better.

               “No,” his fingers skimming over the curve of her shoulder, “I think I’ll continue my extended semi-vacation.”

               It was a fairly innocent gesture, but it awakened her nerves in a way she never would have expected a man’s touch to. She couldn’t explain her body’s reaction to him and she didn’t want to try. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his. “Mmm, I agree.”

               He smiled into her kiss, his hand cradling her jaw. He nuzzled her nose when they separated, “Would you like to stay in or go out?”

               “Stay in,” she whispered, moving to straddle his lap, the sheet falling away, her gorgeous curves bared to his adoring gaze.

               “Mmm, I agree,” he replied with a smile.

***

               Later, the sun’s rays shining a bit brighter than before, Jorah and Daenerys lay face-to-face. She sighed contentedly, her index finger tracing a raised, white half-moon scar on his knuckle. “How did you get this one?”

               He didn’t need to look to know, his eyes locked on her inquisitive face. This was a little game she’d started after they’d made love, passing the time basking in the afterglow. “A bullet ricocheted off a wall we were taking cover behind. A chunk of rock flew off and tore through my glove.”

               Jorah was a veritable connect the dots of scars, from raised pink ones to nearly faded away white lines, she could spend hours asking him. Some she’d pointed out he couldn’t remember where he’d gotten them and she wasn’t surprised. With so many, he was bound to forget some origin stories. It seemed so long ago now, but she had explored his chest and back at the safehouse. That afternoon was a treasured memory, not just because of what had happened in the shower and afterward, but of the deeper intimacy she had felt between them simply studying his body. Baring yourself to someone, letting them see the parts of you that you hate, and knowing that despite the ugliness, they still love you is a profound feeling. Jorah had said her scar made her even more beautiful, and for an instant, she hadn’t believed him. But once she looked into his eyes, she knew it was the truth. It was the same for her, most of these marks were Jorah’s past, the time before he knew her. He told her so little of his time during the war, the memories likely too painful and hard to talk about. But she wanted to know everything about the man who had risked his life for her and gained a few more scars because of it.

               Lifting his arm and turning it over, she searched, but didn’t find any more. “Can I see the other one?”

               He shifted to his back and laid his arm out to the side, watching her sit cross-legged at his hip, moving the appendage into her lap. She studied it like an ancient treasure map and he smiled softly at her. Wearing his shirt from the night before and nothing else, her hair hastily drawn up in a messy chignon, she was stunning even at her most casual. “What?”

               He snapped back to reality at her question to find her grinning at him, her dimples on full display. “You’re just…”

               She knew what he was going to say, so she gave him a quick peck on the lips. “You are too, my bear.”

               Her endearment never ceased to make warmth spread through his chest. “I’m beautiful?”

               She arched an eyebrow, “You know what I mean, Jorah.”

               “I do,” he teased back.

               Her thumb brushed over four faint parallel white lines on his inner forearm, almost near his wrist. “How did you get these?”

               His expression grew wistful, “Our battalion was clearing out a village of survivors from a recent enemy bombing. A little girl was sitting by what was left of her home, crying and pointing to a small hole in the ground. I went over and asked what was wrong. Her kitten had fallen inside, you could hear its pitiful mewls for help. So, I got a flashlight and reached inside, but I could only get a hold of its tail. It didn’t like that very much, so once I got it free, it clawed my arm. That was to be expected, the poor thing was scared. The little girl was so grateful, she gave me a hug and went on her way.” Jorah smiled, “I saw her about a week later at the refugee camp. She had named her kitten _sré zer_ , the Pashto word for ‘gold’ because my hair was the same color as the kitten’s fur.”

               “Aww, how sweet is that,” she gushed, “That’s one scar you can look at fondly.”

               “I have another like it.”

               “Really,” she asked, seemingly surprised, “Show me.”

               “This one,” he said softly, pointing to his left shoulder.

               Daenerys felt her eyes start to sting. “Why that one?”

               Jorah knew she knew why, but wanted to hear him say it. “This one brought us back together.” A tear slipped down her cheek and Jorah sat up, taking her face in his hands, “And I would have gladly taken a hundred more just like it to have you safe in my arms again.”

               Her eyes closed and she leaned into his touch, soft sobs breaking up the silence. He brushed her tears away, his forehead coming to rest against hers. What he told her was the gods truth, stepping into that barn, he had been willing to die for her. And even now, with the threat on her life likely long gone, he would never stop protecting her.

               Drawing her to lie down with him, he held her close, rubbing his hand over her hair and down her back in soothing motions. Soon her tears stopped falling and she lifted her head, sniffling, “You risked your life so many times for me. How can anything I ever offer you be enough for that?”

               Jorah was shocked, she thought she _owed_ him something for protecting her. “Daenerys, it’s not about repaying me,” he explained softly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

               “But you-”

               “Listen to me, love. Do you know what I was most afraid would happen after we left those government safehouses?” She shook her head, “That you’d send me away again. That I’d lose you again.” That last sentence came out nearly a whisper, as if saying it louder would make it a reality. “But when you forgave me, I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. You were giving me a second chance, one I didn’t think I deserved.” He brushed the loose strands of hair from her forehead, “Your forgiveness is more than enough for me. Love isn’t about owing the other something.”

               Jorah was right. The concept of love was new to her. Well, romantic love anyway. She remembered the love of her mother, sweet and nurturing. The love of her friends. But romantic love from a man…that was a different story. Daario had certainly never loved her. He had _lusted_ after her. And Daenerys knew the difference now because of the way Jorah was with her. He _cared_ about her and her happiness. He knew the person she was beneath all of the shields she had put up. Sure, there was desire and passion between them, but it was tempered with patience, respect, and understanding. It was real and true, a lasting love. Forged by the good times and the bad.

               Daenerys couldn’t find the words to say what she wanted to so she kissed him, a chaste meeting of lips that she poured everything from her heart into. And when they parted, the bright affection in Jorah’s eyes made her breathe a laugh. The sudden ringing of Jorah’s mobile broke the spell. “Maybe you should get that.”

               He nodded, pulling back the covers and getting out of bed. She got a brief flash of pale muscled arse cheek before he pulled up his jeans and rushed downstairs to answer the call. She waited, listening. It was Barristan on the other end and she couldn’t really get much of what he was calling about from Jorah’s end of the conversation. But when he said ‘hold on’ and she heard his footsteps coming upstairs, she knew somehow that whatever it was involved her.

               He stopped beside the bed, holding out the phone, “He wants to talk to you.”

               She took it from him hesitantly, the look in his eyes had her worried. She had only spoken to Jorah’s friend a few times, but the older man’s roughened voice had a smooth refined quality despite the difficult news he related to her. Foolishly, she had thought this whole thing was behind her, but it was back with a vengeance. Old memories surfaced as she listened: the cold, cruel words of her and her father’s final interaction, the fading life from his once maniacal eyes, the growing pool of blood beneath his body. Every happy, blissful feeling from last night and that morning left her in a rush, and in its place, seeped a steeling chill. She wrapped her free arm around herself, barely managing to keep up with the conversation, though there was little she needed to say. And when he was finished, she handed Jorah the mobile robotically, her eyes fixed on a loose thread of the duvet.

               “Love?” She barely heard him. It wasn’t until he tucked his index finger under her chin, lifting her face to his concerned gaze that she broke out of her trance. “What did he say?”

               “They found my father’s will. He left me nothing. His last wishes were to be cremated and his ashes spread at sea. They want me to pick up the urn so I can do that part.” She seized his hand suddenly, “Will you go with me?”

               “Of course, Daenerys, you needn’t ask.”

               She climbed into his lap and held him tight, so fiercely it nearly hurt. But he knew it was nothing compared to the tangle of emotions twisted up inside her. There were no words that would truly make it better, so he stayed silent. She had always found comfort in that and the quiet strength of his arms.

***

               Daenerys stood at the bow of the boat, the sea rocky as it sailed into deeper waters. The silver urn in her hands was cold and heavy, just like the relationship with her father had been. The minister’s words were a jumble of noise to her, barely audible over the wind whipping loose strands of hair into her eyes. She stared straight ahead and wasn’t surprised to find she felt no sadness, only disappointment. A sense of loss only at the fact of what could have existed between them, the bond that _should_ have been.

               Jorah stood at her side, his hand resting on her shoulder. He was her anchor today just as he had been for so many months now, the lifeline of comfort and protection he offered kept her afloat in the seas that sometimes threatened to swallow her whole. They had been through so much together, the connection they shared stronger than any other bond. She had seen the best and the worst of him, knew his heart and soul as she had never known another’s. The same could be said of him, he knew her almost as she knew herself.

               When it came time to commit the ashes to the sea, Daenerys did so without hesitation, unscrewing the lid and upending the container over the side, the pale remains of the man she scarcely loved falling into the churning water below, the tinier, lighter fragments carried away on the breeze until there was nothing left.

               Gulls rode the buffeting wind, wings outstretched, the boat chugging its way back to the dock. A weight no longer rested on her shoulders, she was free like the birds that flew above her. She could go anywhere, do anything, and most importantly, love whomever she wished. That man stood next to her, his elbows resting on the rail, eyes scanning the coastline.

               Jorah felt her eyes on him and he turned, “What is it, love?”

               “I’m free now. It’s finally all over and my life is my own.”

               “I suppose you’re right.” His small smile was ironic, “I guess that means I’m out of a job.”

               “Not really.”

“Oh?”

“I thought boyfriends protected their girlfriends too.”

Jorah couldn’t help but chuckle, “Ah, I see. Same job, different title.”

               “I can make you a promise: you won’t get stabbed or shot at.”

               “That’s very reassuring.” His fingers interlaced with hers, “When do I start?”

               “You already have.”

               His hand gave hers a soft squeeze, “Perfect.”

***

               Once back on land, Jorah’s mobile rang. He answered and engaged in a short conversation before slipping the phone back into his suit jacket pocket.

               “That was Barristan. Apparently he has something to give you. He wants to meet us at my place in an hour.”

               They drove back to his house, and once there, undressed from their funeral clothes into something more comfortable. It wasn’t long before the doorbell chimed and Jorah opened the door to let his friend in.

               “Jorah,” he said with a small smile, the men sharing a brief one-armed hug before Jorah closed the door.

               Barristan held a manila envelope in his hand and shifted it so he could shake Daenerys’ hand, “How are you holding up, my dear?”

               “I’m hanging in there, thanks.” She glanced at his cane, “How’s your leg?”

               He patted it with the envelope, “Almost back to normal.” He cleared his throat, “Well, I’ll get right to the reason for my visit.”

               “Wait,” Daenerys said, “I wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me. It means a great deal to me. You didn’t have to risk your life like that.”

               She approached him and pressed a kiss to his cheek, the older man blushing to the roots of his thinning grey hair. “You’re very welcome.”

               It took Barristan a moment to collect his thoughts as he sat down slowly on one of the high bar stools, “Firstly, I’m sorry to say I’m the bearer of some bad news. Your father’s assets have been frozen and his properties are now under the ownership of the British government. A sort of posthumous restitution, if you will. Now, some of the belongings in the house were not confiscated mainly because they only have intrinsic value, namely you and your mother’s paintings and a few other belongings. They are in storage until you wish to claim them. But I also have something that might be good news. While we were searching your father’s residence, we came across a hidden safe in the floor under his desk. Inside were several important documents, but then we found this,” he held up the envelope, “All the way at the bottom. It has your name on it; however, it is not your father’s handwriting on the front.”

               He held it out to her and she took it. That’s when Daenerys noticed the all-too-familiar elegant script. Her chest tightened, her hands beginning to tremble, “It’s my mother’s.”

               Opening the envelope with curious expectation, she pulled out a sheaf of paper, secured by a paperclip. The pages got blurrier as she flipped through each successive one, a tear falling from one eye with a heavy plop onto the last page.

               Lifting her head, she was met with two sets of questioning eyes. Her voice wavered when she first tried to speak, so she cleared her throat, “They’re bank documents. My mother set up an account in my name. Apparently, I’m worth £5,000,000. Not only that, I’m also the owner of a small art gallery in Scotland.”

               Both men’s eyebrows shot up and Jorah gave her a stunned smile, “That’s fantastic, love.”

               “I guess it was good news after all,” Barristan glanced at his watch, “I best be off. Take care, dear. And you too, Jorah. I’ll see you Monday.”

               After seeing him out, Jorah came to stand in front of Daenerys, who still hadn’t moved. The shock was only now dissipating from her eyes, “I never would have found out if none of this had happened.”

               “Perhaps your mother knew on some level that your father’s _career choice_ could only end one way.”

               “What am I going to do with all this?” she said, holding up the papers as she slumped into a nearby chair.

               “Go be a curator. Paint, sell your art. Sell the gallery if you want. You have a lot of options to choose from.” He crouched in front of her, “This is the freedom you spoke about earlier.”

               “I don’t know the first thing about running a gallery.”

               “So what? Bullshit your way through it.”

               She couldn’t help but laugh. It stopped not long after it started and her face grew serious, “But what about you?”

               Resting his hands on her knees, he shrugged. “ _What about me_? I’ll figure it out, I’ll put in for a transfer. After everything I’ve been through, _we’ve_ been through, I’m sure they’ll grant the request. No matter what you decide, I will be there. Right by your side. You are my life now, Daenerys. I have everything I need right in front of me, and wherever we go, _that_ will be our home.”

               Her smile was his only warning before she tackled him onto his back, her lips pressing against his, “It looks like we’re heading north.”

               He grinned and rolled them, his body half over hers, “You know, love, parts of Scotland can get very cold.”

               Her fingers toyed with the top button of his shirt, “Well, I’m a very lucky woman then, because I have a big, cuddly bear to keep me warm.”

               Nuzzling her neck, Jorah whispered, “A job I plan to take _very_ seriously.”

               Her peals of laughter gave way to pleasured sighs as they celebrated the beginning of their new life together.


	33. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jorah live in a new town and have a new life. What else have these changes brought them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: major amounts of fluff

_One Year Later_

Jorah wasn't sure how many times he had watched her like this or how many times he had fought the urge to crawl back into bed with her. Sometimes he couldn't believe it had been a year since they were reunited on that fateful day. Well, it had really been longer ago than that, but their _official_ relationship was one year strong today. The day she had confessed her love, trusting him with her heart once more, had been a new start, a reset of sorts. And Jorah had decided to do things right. He asked her on a date, a _real_ first date, seeing as they had never had one. He courted her as he had always believed she should have been: bouquets of her favorite flowers, holding hands and sharing sweet, tender kisses. Then Daenerys had received that envelope, contained inside information that would change their lives forever. She was a very rich woman now, but Jorah really couldn’t care less about the money. All he cared about was being with her, wherever she decided that would be. She was his home, not a building somewhere. So, she made up her mind, they were going to Scotland. Edinburgh to be exact. Leaving Jorah’s house had been especially hard for Daenerys, she’d fallen in love with it during the time she had lived there. Finding a new one in their new city had proven difficult, nearly every one they visited she had found some fault with it. Too big, too modern, too ostentatious. But then, on the very last day of their search, she’d found ‘the one’. She had called it the Goldilocks house, the perfect fit for her and her bear. They’d bought it on the spot. But what Jorah hadn’t told her was that he had never sold their old house, he had seen how much it had hurt Daenerys to leave it, so he kept it, planning to surprise her at some later date.

A slightly different occupation, as well as different scenery and her constant presence, had a very good effect on Jorah. There was a change in his demeanor, he smiled a bit more, his posture less upright and tense. But when they walked down the street, he still walked on the side closest to traffic and if anyone ever got too close to her in public, he'd steer her away with a gentle hand against her back. He still looked out for her, still made her feel safe even if there was no lingering threat. The change in scenery had been a blessing for her too, she had finally felt like things were the way they should be, the way she had always wanted them to be. Life was good. Really, really good. That's not to say every day was perfect. They had their rows, of course, almost always about something silly, like clothes left on the floor or used mugs left in the sink. They rarely fought about important things, like money or time prioritization because they agreed about those subjects. Daenerys was a fiery woman, and when she argued, it was with an intensity Jorah had only glimpsed from her. It took quite a bit more to raise Jorah's ire, and during most of their arguments, he was merely frustrated. He never raised his voice to her, he had done so once as her bodyguard and regretted it deeply. While their disagreements never got very heated, their make-up sex was. Clothes pulled from bodies in a hurry, fierce kisses, and Jorah on his back beneath her. They started fast and ended just as quickly, and when it was over, he held her in his arms, the brush of his lips and his touch were gentle, soothing, his declaration of remorse and love so sincere it would bring tears to her eyes.

Daenerys shifted in bed, turning onto her back, nearly spread eagle. The sheet did little to hide the fact that she was naked, the fabric molding to every curve and gentle swell of her body. The soft early morning light made her appear luminous, her silver hair and pale skin reminiscent of some ethereal being. _Gods, she's beautiful._ It wasn't the first time he'd thought it and it wouldn't be the last.

He had never looked forward to an anniversary the way he had with theirs. He had the evening planned months in advance, their day unfortunately taken up by work. He had half a mind to call in sick and spend the time with her.

“Morning, my bear.”

Drawn from his thoughts by Daenerys' sleepily mumbled greeting, he found her staring at him, head propped on her hand, a fond expression on her face. “Morning _Khaista_.”

“Come back to bed,” she patted the mattress next to her.

“Daenerys,” he said slowly, “If I do that, we'll never make it to work on time.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

He smirked, sometimes it was so hard to resist her. But instead of moving toward the bed, he walked to the closet first and opened it, removing a big box from inside. “Wouldn't you rather open your gift?”

“You're my gift.” Her eyebrows waggled, “I love you in that bathrobe.”

“This old thing,” he gestured to his well-worn red flannel dressing gown. He smiled, sitting down next to her. “Happy anniversary, Daenerys.”

She sat up and took the gift from him, setting it in her lap, admiring how he always wrapped her presents so beautifully. She opened it with care, lifted the lid, and parted the tissue paper. She gasped, her hand running over the rich dark leather cover of a large sketchbook and underneath was a new set of brush pens, her favorite type of marker. She had been eyeing these items for weeks and clearly Jorah had been paying attention when they had last gone to the art supply store. “You remembered.”

Before he could respond, she had her arms around him, the box trapped between them. She pulled back and met his eyes, “It's perfect, Jorah. Thank you.”

“You're welcome, love.”

“I have your gift,” she said, disentangling herself from his embrace to open the drawer of her nightstand, pulling out an artfully wrapped box. She set it in his lap, watching expectantly as he undid the bow and lifted the lid. He took the book out slowly, its leather cover a bit worn at the corners, the edges of the pages yellowed with age.

“Daenerys,” he said softly, his gaze tearing away from the gift to meet hers, “how did you find this?”

“An art dealer I know is friends with an antiques dealer. I mentioned in passing that this is your favorite book, and next thing I know, he's phoning me that his friend has a copy.”

He opened the cover with care and went to the copyright page. His suspicions were confirmed, it was a first edition.

She smiled. Jorah was speechless, but the look on his face was easy for Daenerys to understand. “I'm glad you love it, Jorah.”

He put it back in the box and cupped her face with his hand, his thumb brushing over the apple of her cheek, “Thank you, love.”

And then he kissed her, soft and sweet, before resting his forehead against hers.

“Do we really have to go to work today,” she whispered, “I just want to spend the day with you.”

“So do I.” He brought her fingers to his lips, “But you have that buyer coming in and I have that important regional meeting.”

“You're right,” she sighed, tossing back the covers and getting out of bed. But Daenerys thought she'd give it one last go, sashaying slowly toward the bathroom. Stopping at the door, she glanced over her shoulder to find Jorah smirking at her, shaking his head slowly.

“It was worth a try,” she shrugged, then disappeared behind the door to get ready for the day.

***

Letting the door to the gallery close behind her, she basked in the stillness of the cool room. She enjoyed being there at that time, a whole day ahead of her, brimming with possibilities. Even after a year, she still sometimes believed it was all a dream. There was a time before Jorah came into her life that she thought she would likely meet the same fate as her brothers because of her father's bad choices. But that was such a distant memory now, falling asleep in the arms of the man she adored had a funny way of making her forget her past. Setting her bag and keys down on her glass desktop at the back of the gallery, she reached into her purse to retrieve her mobile, needing to check for any messages from the buyer. She felt paper instead of smooth glass, her brows drawing together in confusion. _Did I put it in a different pocket?_ She peered inside the deep cavern of her handbag and that was when she noticed the familiar, tidy script on a yellow sticky note.

_You are never far from my thoughts, love_

_Jorah_

Daenerys couldn't stop the grin from breaking across her face. No matter how many times Jorah left these little notes for her, they still gave her that lovely rush of warmth in her chest. Gods, how she loved him. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man: sweet, romantic, and wholly devoted to her. But it was so much more than that. He got her to stop and think before impulsivity got the better of her. He calmed her thoughts and helped her see the good amongst the bad. He made her feel safe, physically, mentally and emotionally. When she was with him, she felt light, the weight that had once been heavy on her shoulders was gone. This note deserved a special place, but where to put it? The thin bezel of her sleek computer monitor was no longer white, it was multi-colored. Blue, green, orange, even pink sticky notes. He didn't give her one every day, but it looked like he did with the amount she had stuck there. Her favorites, though, were along the bottom, where her eyes would drift during slow periods of the day. _You’ll knock ‘em dead, love. You are my everything. I can't wait to hold you later._ This one went next to that sentiment, her fingers lingering over the words after she affixed it there. She sighed happily; _it's going to be a good day._

***

“Hello, Jorah.”

She was standing with her back to him and he marveled at how she could identify him solely by his footsteps. Or maybe it was his scent, she had said she could place it anywhere. He'd joke with her about that and she'd always say the same thing: _I learned from the best._ “How was your day, love?”

“Sold some art, scheduled an exhibition for a local artist. You know, the usual.” She turned, smiling, “How about you, my bear?”

“Translated some intercepts, listened in on a wiretap of a terrorist cell. You know, the usual,” he winked with a small smile.

They always asked each other about their day. For Jorah, it was sometimes a way to decompress, to deal with some of the awful things he overheard, saw, and translated. And Daenerys knew that he needed that, someone he could confide in, even if he didn’t divulge everything or if she didn't fully understand it all. It was more about the listening, being a sounding board and she could do that.

Her smile broadened; he had stopped at home and changed before coming to get her. His work attire wasn't a suit anymore, but rather, just a dress shirt, slacks, and his ID badge. It had taken him awhile to get to used that change. He'd always considered the suit his uniform of sorts, or as she had thought of it, his modern day armour. Eventually, Jorah told her he considered the change in dress code to be a good thing. Letting the past go to start fresh. He didn't carry a firearm anymore either and she often wondered if he felt naked without it. Jorah could be just as proficient with his fists though, so she never worried about her safety.

The past year had been, dare she say it, peaceful. It was the life she'd always longed for. And she had it with the sweetest, most gorgeous man. Tall and lean, with his sky-blue button up, dark wash jeans and black leather jacket, he was so handsome it almost hurt. The loud beeping of her fax machine drew her attention away, the LCD screen letting her know the message had been delivered. “Great, now we can go. I've been waiting for that fax to go through for the last hour.”

Collecting her purse and mobile, she went to grab her jacket, but stopped, “Oh that's right. I forgot it this morning.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you do that just so you can wear mine,” he remarked teasingly, but he was already shrugging out of it.

“Maybe,” her eyebrow arching before she turned so he could help her into it. The jacket swam on her frame, the sleeves engulfing her hands, but it was a sight Jorah loved. “Besides, it's always warmer than my jacket.”

She rose on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his. He wrapped an arm around her waist, deepening their kiss, holding her to him a bit longer than usual. And when they broke apart, there was a softness in his eyes that made her insides all fuzzy.

He linked their fingers as they walked to the front entrance, where she engaged the security system with the code before locking the door after them. Three gray slate stone steps led down to street level and she paused on the second one, stowing her keys momentarily in Jorah's right jacket pocket. Normally he didn't carry anything in them, save for the inner one, where he kept his wallet. But there was something cool and round beside her keyring, her fingers following the shape, her heart beginning to beat faster with the realization of what it felt like. She pulled it out and her breath caught. It was a small round cut emerald in a platinum setting bordered on each side by a delicate Celtic knot pattern. Simple yet beautiful.

“That's not how I planned for this to go.” Jorah looked crestfallen, his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped.

She couldn’t find her voice, she could only gape at him.

He took the opportunity of her shocked silence to continue, “I know that you wouldn’t have wanted an elaborate, public proposal. I also knew that while you deserve the best that I can give you, this ring suits _you_ far more than any large diamond ever would. I brought it with me hoping that there would be a quiet moment when I could ask you.”

She swallowed and looked up at him, and while she may have had tears in her eyes, her look was playful, “Ask me what, Jorah?”

He inhaled a deep breath and took the ring from her fingers. He held her left hand in his, “I don’t know what I may have done in my life to deserve you. Sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe you’re real. Daenerys, will you marry me?”

His blue eyes looked down at her and she saw a bit of worry in them. She rested her hand on his cheek, her response simple but sure, “Yes.” 

He exhaled his breath through a laugh and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the ground. A few people had stopped and they were greeted by some cheers and whistles of congratulations. They broke their kiss at the noise, Jorah smiling broadly as she blushed slightly. 

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth as he set her back down and slipped the ring on her finger, a teasing hint to her voice, “Jorah, you didn’t kneel on one knee to ask me.”

He smiled at her, his eyes full of mischief and affection, “Don’t worry, love, I’ll kneel before you later.” 

She arched her eyebrow at the double meaning in his words, not only looking forward to what later would bring, but to the rest of their lives together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, the end. I love the reception this has story received and I loved bringing a new chapter to you, my lovely, wonderful readers, every week. But now it's over :cries ugly tears:
> 
> Have no fear, however, because I have more one-shots and a few longer length story ideas featuring my favorite OTP that I've been working on.
> 
> Also, there just might be a sequel to The Protector sometime in the new year ;D


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